


What it Means to be Seen

by BardsBeBardin924



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Adventure & Romance, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arthur Actually Possesses some Emotional Intelligence, Everyone Is Gay, F/F, Good Morgana (Merlin), Implied Sexual Content, Kilgharrah continues to be unhelpful at all costs, M/M, Magic Revealed, Morgana Knows about Merlin's Magic (Merlin), Pining, Slow Build, Tenderness, literally everyone is gay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-22
Updated: 2020-08-31
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:21:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 46,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26047927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BardsBeBardin924/pseuds/BardsBeBardin924
Summary: Merlin has a lot on his plate these days. Well, as he does most days.When Morgana's nightmares grow to the point of her accidentally lighting her room aflame, and Gwen grows more and more concerned, Merlin knows its time to intervene.Maybe Kilgharrah will have something wise to say on the matter...? (Don't hold your breath.)Meanwhile, the royal family prepares for the annual Samhain celebration, as well as the imminent arrival of the House of Doremus, Uther's most recent attempt at arranging a marriage for his son. Arthur, despite himself, can't help but hide his displeasure at the thought.What could go wrong?
Relationships: Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Comments: 34
Kudos: 272





	1. Laundry Day, Poached Eggs, and Something's Up with Morgana

The night is quiet as Merlin bustles down the castle’s hallway, hauling a laundry basket down to the washing chamber. He tries his best to keep the basket balanced on his hip, like he’s seen other servants do so effortlessly, but he ends up huffing furiously every time the load slips off and onto the ground. Quietly grumbling to himself, tempted to lighten the weight in a way only he knows, he continues to plod down the candlelit corridor.

He passes a few servants, quietly hurrying to their own duties throughout the castle. Some carry plates of fruit and cheese for visiting nobles, some sweep the white stone flooring or dust the tapestries, and even others, like him, carry bundles of fabric far more luxurious than they could ever hope to own. He always makes sure to give a faint smile to everyone he passes, regardless of whether they return the gesture or stay focused on their task at hand. He knows how important it is to feel a part of something, and makes sure that they know he understands the unique burden they bear.

As he walks toward his destination, his mind drifts to his early moments as a servant in Camelot. After a series of events regarding his lack of decorum landed him a few uncomfortable days in the stocks and putrid nights in the dungeons, he quickly learned how to fill his role. He learned how to walk exactly two paces behind the prince, when to speak and when to keep his mouth shut, how to equip his armor in quick time, and what wine the cook finds most desirable to ensure she always delivers a piping hot meal for the prince. Above all else, though, he learned how important it can be to receive a smile from someone at the end of a long day.

Reflecting on this in his mind, he blasts straight into an opening door with a loud _thunk_ , and he reels back, dropping his basket, pressing his hand to his throbbing head. “Sorry!” He says, grimacing, rubbing the growing knot on his temple. “My fault!”

“Watch where you’re going, manservant,” says a crass, loud, and unrecognizable voice. His large form pushes past Merlin, clacking down the hall.

“Nobles,” Merlin grumbles, picking up the scattered clothes and gathering up the basket once again.

Rounding the corner of the hall, boots softly tapping against the cold stone floor, he proceeds until he reaches the laundry chamber. Thrusting the door open with his hip, he walks into the dimly lit room, currently occupied by three or four other servants and maids. He scans across the room, watching as they all scrub and slosh royal fabrics, rainbows of color more vibrant than life, through soapy waters. He looks from face to face until his eyes land on Gwen, and he instantly smiles brightly. She doesn’t see him – she remains focused on wringing out a violet garment with a furrowed brow of concentration.

He shuffles over to the washing bin next to her, plopping his prince’s fragrant tunics on the floor between them. “Evening, Guinevere,” he says, smiling wide. He picks up a pile of clothes and drops them into the frothy water, releasing the pungent scent of a hard day’s knight training.

She wrinkles her nose at the smell, coughing slightly at the stench. “I could _smell_ you coming up along the hallway before I heard you, and I’m afraid that’s saying something, dear Merlin.”

His laugh rings out at her words as he rolls up his shirtsleeves, plunging into the water to scrub the clothes clean. “Oh come now, Gwen, my subtlety and stealth is well renowned.” He grins even wider, grateful for the familiar contentment he feels with his dear friend.

At that, Gwen chuckles, wiping stray strands of curly black hair out of her face with her forearm. She seems distracted – her hands continue the motions of washing her lady’s garments, but her eyes are unfocused. Merlin can almost see the cogs turning in the back of her head as she completes her chores by rote.

“Something on your mind, Gwen?” he asks, slopping water onto the floor and splashing his tunic in the process.

Watching him struggle and battle the suds, she sighs, a light smile on her face. “Just the fact that after three years you still seem unable to understand the basic concept of laundry,” she says sarcastically. “The point is to wash _other_ people’s clothes, Merlin, not your own.”

He shrugs. “Yes, well, this way it’s all done in one and I don’t even have to worry about my washing! See?” He gestures down to his half-wet clothes, dripping more water all around him. “I personally think it’s genius.”

Gwen rolls her eyes in good nature, turning back to her last bit of laundry. She’s definitely quieter tonight. Even though she’s presenting light spirits to Merlin, it seems like she’s keeping something to herself. Merlin decides not to pry, certain that when she’s ready she’ll talk to him. They continue their washing in silence, and Gwen finishes up quickly. Piling the wet laundry back into the basket, she prepares to hang it all to dry.

“Well, good night, Merlin,” she says, voice slightly above a whisper before walking towards the door.

“Night!” Merlin calls over his shoulder, scrubbing at a particularly stubborn sweat stain on the prince’s shirt.

He busies himself for a while, getting lost in the repetitive motion of soaking, scrubbing, scraping, and rinsing, over and over again. It’s a kind of lullaby, he’s found, to help him end off the evening. He hums softly, pinching away any stray threads on the clothing, paying special attention to his personal favorite items. In with the rinse water, he places a few sprigs of pine, to help freshen the scent of the prince’s clothes. He enjoys the breath of fresh, crisp air that pine brings, and it always reminds him of Arthur. He gently tends to the clothes, ensuring they have enough time to absorb the fresh pine scent, and imagines the contentment his prince will feel when he smells the comforting fragrance. Sometimes, when Arthur’s convinced Merlin isn’t looking, he’ll catch him taking a deep sniff of the freshly washed fabric. Every so often, Merlin allows himself the indulgence of imagining what it would be like to be held by Arthur so tenderly. To feel his warm, steady hands supporting his frame –

“Do you know of any treatment for nightmares?” Gwen’s voice blurts out.

The sudden noise startles Merlin and he gasps, instinctively bringing his hands up in protection, flinging water towards Gwen. “Mother be, Gwen! You can’t sneak up on me like that!” He releases a breath, relaxing his shoulder muscles that had instinctually come up towards his ears. Merlin pauses for a moment, the water continuing to slosh around in his bucket.

Gwen’s breath is quick and shallow, and she twists her fingers together in front of her. She picks at the waist hem of her light pink dress, unusually fidgety. Her dark brown eyes flit around the room, glancing over at Merlin just once before looking aimlessly around. She bites her lip, brow furrowed.

Merlin scrunches his eyebrows together, looking at her carefully. He can sense the conflict and worry that’s roiling within her. He wipes his arms dry, slowly approaching her, concerned. “Are you having nightmares, Gwen?” he asks.

She hesitates, fidgeting in place, searching for what to say. “Yes – well, no – but… Sort of?” She sighs, shaking her head. “Actually, never mind, Merlin, I’m sure you don’t want to be bothered with this,” and she turns to head out the door.

“Hang on a minute, Gwen,” Merlin says, catching the crook of her elbow gently in his hand. “Whatever it is, it’s clearly bothering you. If you need to talk to someone about it, I’ve got two ears to listen.”

She spins back around and Merlin smiles reassuringly. She scans the room to make certain that no other servants are listening to find the room has emptied entirely. Looking back at Merlin, she says, “Can we sit?” Merlin nods, and she guides them both to sit down on a nearby bench.

Gwen takes a couple of deep breaths, Merlin waiting patiently. He looks down at her hands to see her picking at the skin around her fingers, and he lightly places his hands over her own. She, instead, grips his hands. She lets out a low laugh. “You’re going to think this is silly,” she says, voice barely above a whisper.

“No, I won’t,” he says seriously. He leans his head down to meet her eyes and nods reassuringly. “What’s troubling you?”

She steadies herself and levels her gaze with his. “It’s Morgana,” she whispers, concern flooding her eyes.

Merlin nods quickly. “Yes, I know Gaius has been giving her some sleeping draughts for quite some time now.”

“No,” she says quickly, “it’s not just that.” Gwen clenches her jaw as moisture fills her eyes, but she blinks it away. “The nightmares are getting worse, Merlin. Its –“ she pauses, fighting with herself as to what to say. Cautiously, she says, “She needs more help than I or the draughts can offer, I’m afraid.”

Merlin tilts his head, curious. “What do you mean? Is she ill?”

She shakes her head quickly. “No, nothing like that. It’s just…” she leans in closer and whispers, “I need you to talk to her, then you will understand. Perhaps you can offer another perspective, maybe talk to Gaius, see if he can help in another way.”

He nods. “Yeah, sure, of course. I’ll do what I can. I know what she means to you.”

At that, a ghost of a smile appears on Gwen’s visage. “What she means to all of us, you mean. I’m nothing but a simple maid.”

Merlin smirks, averting his gaze. “Whatever you say, Gwen,” he says in a sing-song tone.

She gives him a gentle shove before taking another deep breath. “Thank you, Merlin. For listening.”

He pats her lightly on the back, a smile of comfort on his face. “It’s my pleasure, Gwen. You’re the best friend I have in this place.”

At that, the first true smile he’s seen from her spreads across her face, and she says, “You’re far too kind. I’m a right pain in your arse most of the time.”

“Well, as am I to you, so we’re even, yeah?” he chuckles lightly, coming to stand.

Gwen stands with him and pulls him into a hug. He rests his head atop hers, gently patting her back. He breaks away, playfully shooing her out the door. “Now get out of here and go comfort your lady before we sit here gabbing the night away.” He walks her to the door, opening it wide for her. “Good night, Guinevere. I’ll speak to Gaius as soon as I get the chance.”

She smiles and says, “Good night, Merlin. Thank you again. I’ll see you at breakfast, I assume?” With a quick nod from Merlin, Gwen exits the laundry room, leaving Merlin to his thoughts, the dim candlelight, and the last remnants of his washing.

He returns to his station, plunging back into the tepid water, scrubbing away at the last few pieces of clothing. By the time he’s finished rinsing the last item, his fingers are wrinkled from the water, but he’s satisfied by the pine fresh laundry. Thoroughly pleased with himself, heads across the hall to hang the clothes up to dry, and begins making his way back to his chambers. His thoughts turn to Morgana. The king’s ward, outspoken, witty, brilliant. Her tongue is as sharp as her sword, and she knows how to use it just as well.

She has magic.

There can be no other explanation for Gwen’s growing worry for her lady. Merlin has been hearing rumors of Morgana’s fearsome nightmares; some say that one evening, she awoke screaming, and her bedframe had caught fire. Gwen took the blame, citing a slip of a candle, and paid for it with a week in the dungeons. But Merlin fears he knows the truth. He’s seen her tired eyes, the purple circles that grow day by day, witnessed her ever-shortening temper, observed as her appetite disappeared, watched her withdraw deeper and deeper within herself. He has sensed something within her making itself known, whether she is aware of it or not. Merlin knows that Gaius will have some guidance on how to help. He continues down the dark corridor, much emptier now than they were before.

Upon approaching the door to his chambers, he sees light flickering between the wood slats of the door. Gaius still awake, at this time of night? He ponders to himself as he pushes the door open. The heavy door creaks on its hinges as it swings open and closed, and Merlin steps into the cozy chambers. The room is lit by a simple candelabra sitting on the center of their dining table, and Merlin sees the familiar and comforting sights of the physician’s room. Various herbs – valerian, chamomile, lavender, mugwort, hawthrone – hang upside-down from the ceiling, drying out to be used later. Dark wooden bookshelves line the walls, filled to the brim with handwritten texts on the art of healing. Books ranging from anatomy, to theories on the brain, to some that involve a little something from a time before the Great Purge. Those texts are the ones Merlin knows better than others – its almost like he’s drawn to them, like their knowledge is something he cannot help but learn. Healing supplies like tinctures, tonics, potions, syrups, needles, thread, cloth bandages, and honey all lie scattered around the chambers. Some sit organized and covered in dust, while other bottles are half-empty on their sides with their labels smudged over time from frequent use. Over against the far corner of the room is Gaius’ desk, overflowing with more books and mixtures, all tossed amongst vials and beakers for concocting various medicines.

This is where Merlin finds Gaius, his torso slumped onto the table, fast asleep. He’s faintly snoring as a small amount of dribble runs down his wrinkled chin onto a book titled _Draughts, Potions, and Herbs for Insomnia and Nightmares._ Merlin can’t help but chuckle at the scenario. He decides it best to wait until the all-too-soon morning to bring up the subject of Morgana’s nightmares, lightly sliding Gaius’ glasses off of his face. A few strands of his silver hair get tangled in the metal, and he carefully pries them away.

Setting the glasses aside, he walks back over to the dining table where there’s a bowl of fresh berries and a generous portion of bread set out for him. He smiles, sending a silent thought of gratitude to Gaius for leaving out a bit of dinner, and he eats hungrily. Merlin savors the sweetness of the raspberries and the tartness of the blackberries, alternating between them and bites of the soft bread. He keeps his pace steady, making sure to enjoy the food rather than funneling it from the bowl to his stomach. The ripe fruit turns his fingers a rich, deep purple, and he licks the sweetness off of each fingertip, one by one. All too soon, his meal is complete, and with a flash of gold in his eyes and a flick of his wrist, the candles are extinguished in the center of the table.

He carefully pads across the dark chambers back into his own, much smaller room. As his eyes adjust to the low levels of moonlight, he sees his familiar sanctuary: a wooden-frame bed with a thin pillow and thinner wool blanket, a dark wood nightstand that holds a cup of fresh water, and a cupboard against the wall that holds his meager wardrobe. As he does every night, he approaches his bed and crouches down, peering at the space underneath. He pries the loose piece of wood up and feels around in the dark for the familiar sensation of cool leather against his fingers. He immediately finds what he’s looking for – his book of magic – and pulls the text out of the makeshift hole. Running his hands across the cover, Merlin feels the familiar vibration, the light feeling of something pulsating with magic. He mutters a quiet incantation, and the golden pulse, a feeling as natural as breathing, flows freely through his body. Out of the sensation comes a singular flame of yellow light, pulsing like that of a candle but cool to the touch.

In this dim light, he skims through the carefully-illustrated pages, looking for anything relating to magical nightmares. He scans page after page, occasionally becoming distracted with vivid images of ice-blue dragons or witches conducting a sacred ritual over a boiling cauldron. There are entries pertaining to sleeping spells, enchantments for unconsciousness, and potions to cure sadness, but nothing for nightmares. He grits his teeth in frustration, trying to fight against his own exhaustion to find a solution for his friend. Eventually, though, his tired eyes win the battle, and he reluctantly tucks the book away in its secret location. He extinguishes the magical flame, and collapses into bed. He drifts off to sleep in the space of one breath, dreaming of the scent of pine. 

The rising sun comes all too soon, and Merlin blinks his eyes open. Stretching his arms overhead, he moves some life back into his body, working out any aches from the lingering stiffness sleep brings. The room is still quite dim, with just the pale violet sky casting light into his room. Quickly dressing in his own kind of armor – blue tunic, simple trousers, red kerchief wrapped around his neck – he heads out into the main chamber.

Gaius stands at the hearth, stirring a pot of steaming porridge. The air smells lightly of apples and cinnamon, and Merlin takes in the pleasant aroma. He smiles to Gaius who nods solemnly, already dressed for the day.

“At what time did you turn in last night?” Gaius asks as he slowly churns the porridge. “I seem to have busied myself right to sleep and missed your arrival.”

Merlin plops down at the bench beside their dining table, wiping the sleep from his eyes. “Dunno, really. Late. Gwen needed some help with something.” He leaves his statement vague enough that he knows Gaius will be curious.

“Oh?” He says, eyebrows raised.

Merlin just nods, picking at a splinter in the table’s wood. He waits patiently as a moment or two passes before Gaius takes the bait.

“And what did she need?” Gaius asks. He ladles a hearty helping of porridge into two bowls with spoons, walking them over to the table for himself and Merlin.

Merlin takes a quick bite before responding, pondering exactly how to breach the topic. As the warming flavors of cinnamon and apple continue to wake him, he simply says, “It’s Morgana.”

Gaius lets out a small sound of acknowledgement, spooning porridge from his bowl. “I know she has been struggling with nightmares, certainly. I’ve been working to concoct a stronger sleeping potion for her to help her sleep.”

Merlin shakes his head, swallowing quickly. “Yes, she has the nightmares, but… Gaius, you and I both know it’s more than that. The draughts haven’t been helping for a reason.”

There’s a pause between them where neither speaks – just the scrape of wooden spoons against wooden bowls.

After a few breaths of silence, Merlin says, “She has magic. _Powerful_ magic.”

He falls quiet, solemnly eating his breakfast. Gaius seems to be turning over thought after thought, deciding his words carefully. He’s always been far more patient than Merlin could ever hope to be. After some time, he says, “Even if it were so, then she cannot learn of the extent of her power. It’s too dangerous.”

Merlin huffs, brows furrowed in disagreement. “But she is showing all the signs of magic, even without her trying. It moves through her whether she wants it to or not, and _that_ is what’s dangerous. Isn’t it best if she were to know how to control what’s inside of her?”

“No, Merlin,” he says firmly. “She can never know.”

“Why?” Merlin asks. He grows agitated, twirling his spoon in his fingers.

“She is the king’s ward,” Gaius replies slowly, looking up at Merlin as he continues scooping up porridge. “If Uther were to find out, I hate to think how he would react.”

Merlin sighs, gesturing a hand around in exasperation. “Isn’t that all the more reason to speak with her? To help her learn to hide, just as you’ve taught me?”

Gaius ponders this. “Hmm,” he says, pursing his lips. His eyes wander to some far off place as he thinks, and Merlin hungrily scoops up the rest of his breakfast.

“Think about it,” Merlin says, standing from his spot at the table. He walks over to the water pitcher and pours a glass of fresh water, drinking his fill quickly. Without turning to face Gaius, he says, “If she approaches me to talk, I’m going to speak with her. Honestly.”

“You would tell her about your magic?” Gaius says, voice sounding surprised if not concerned.

At that Merlin turns, meeting Gaius’ wise gaze. “She should know she’s not alone. It’s the right thing for me to do.”

Gaius’ lips press into a fine line, clearly uncertain about this decision. “You must be careful, Merlin,” he says, voice low and pointed. “The king must never find out about your gift. It would most certainly be a death sentence.”

He nods in response. The familiar sinking sensation in his gut materializes at the mental image of himself, tied to a post, being lit aflame for a force within him he could not hope to keep at bay if he tried. Only this time, his imagination adds Morgana, fear in her eyes, tied to the post next to him, pleading for life.

He shakes the tormented image from his mind, bringing Gaius back into focus. He paints a grin on his face, hoping to extinguish the growing anxiety with an unstoppable sunshine. “Oh, you know me, Gaius,” he says lightheartedly, “I’m always careful.”

Seeing that Gaius has finished his meal, he gathers up the bowls, taking them over to their washing basin, rinsing out the dishware. He pushes away the feeling of breathlessness that comes when Gaius mentions the harsh punishment Uther delivers on those with magic. He knows its no good to remember those he’s seen burn, the looks of hatred and fear of the commoners who watch another druid hanged simply for their existence. But over and over again, they play through his mind, and all he can do is take a breath, stop his hands from shaking, and keep the water he uses to rinse the bowls from boiling. Even now, he has to pull his hands away as steam rises from the basin.

He looks down at his hands holding the bowls, and they’re a light red from the heat that’s pulsing out of them. He feels the magic rushing out of him, and he can sense the power that courses like a current through his veins. It would be so simple to shatter the bowls, right there in his hands, to set them aflame, to build them into a column of fire that blasted through the castle right to King Uther’s bedroom door –

_No,_ he thinks, taking another breath to steady his shaking hands. He recites the words in his mind that he heard his mother say all those years ago: _Magic is a gift, not a curse. It lives and breathes all around us, just like the air. You, Merlin, are not a monster – you are a boy with a present to share with the world._

He hangs on to those words, evening his breath as the power subsides. He blinks rapidly, clearing his thoughts of his vivid imagination. His hands’ color returns to their typical pale, and the water below begins to cool. He smiles softly to himself, watching the ripples of the water move across its surface. Turning toward the magic, rather than letting it rush out of him, he sets the bowls aside and moves his hand in a spiraling motion upward. Feeling the sensation of his life carry magic into the water, a small corkscrew forms out of the basin, pulling up towards his hand. The power is there, and he reminds himself that it is not something to be afraid of.

It wouldn’t be so bad to have someone like Morgana remind him of that now and again.

He shifts his attention to look out the window over the washing basin, and he sees the dawn growing ever brighter. The sky has shifted from soft lilac and blue to pink and orange, with bright yellow peeking over the horizon. The sun rises, and with it, the warmth and joy within Merlin accompanies the light. He turns back to the room itself to find Gaius watching him intently. He’s smiling warmly, a soft crinkle at the corners of his eyes.

“What?” Merlin says, suddenly conscious of his movements.

Gaius shakes his head slightly, eyes bright. “Its not often I see the power, joy, and control you possess. You’re always sharing that dopey smile of yours, but never the wisdom behind it.”

Merlin’s cheeks flush, and he turns away to head out the door. “You’re going to give me a complex, Gaius,” he says, chuckling softly. He opens the door, turning back to Gaius before leaving. “But thank you.”

Gaius nods, that same crinkly smile on his face. “Be safe, Merlin. Don’t let our dear prince get under your skin.”

His heart instinctively flips at the mention of Arthur, and he simply nods, rushing out of the chambers before his face can turn any redder than he’s sure it already is. He rushes down the hallway, thankful for the slight chill of early autumn air that floats through the stone castle corridors.

He knows the morning’s routine by heart, and allows his mind to clear while he goes about gathering the prince’s laundry. He lets thoughts of the pyre float away, thoughts of how much he’d like Arthur to very well get under his skin disappear, thoughts of Morgana’s growing powers rest to be acknowledged at a later time. He retrieves the now-dry laundry, quickly folding the tunics and trousers into neat piles. The crisp pine scent wafts off of the clothing, giving Merlin a regenerative boost before heading out and up, deeper into the castle, off towards Arthur’s chambers.

Quietly opening the door with his hip, he enters the pitch-dark room. As the door swings closed, there’s nothing to be seen. But there’s the distinctive roaring snore coming from the direction of Arthur’s bed. Typical. Ever since Arthur requested for triple-thick drapes to be hung in his room, he’s enjoyed a nice long lie-in shaded from the sunrise. Merlin shakes his head, tuttering all the while, and places the laundry basket down by where he entered through the door. He walks over to the opposite side of the room, around where he knows the cherry wood desk stands, and clasps the drapes in his hands. Taking a deep breath, he readies himself for the coming day, and thrusts the curtains open.

“Rise and shine!” He says, smiling brightly over to the mass of crimson blankets tangled on the massive four-post bed.

A groan emerges and the bundle shifts, an arm poking out of the top to flop over the sheets and blankets. “Merlin,” says Arthur’s thick voice, a tuft of golden blonde hair sticking out from underneath the fabric. The rest of his words are gibberish at best, so Merlin busies himself with taking up the laundry and sorting it away in Arthur’s wardrobe.

“You’ve got breakfast with the king and the Lady Morgana today, sire,” he says, pulling a deep purple cotton tunic from the wardrobe, along with a sturdy pair of brown trousers and a freshly polished leather belt. He retrieves a pair of light socks as well, placing them in a neat pile at the foot of Arthur’s bed. “I hear they’re going to be serving poached eggs this morning. I don’t necessarily understand the appeal of an egg boiled in water mixed with vinegar, but the cook seems to be particularly fond –“

_THWACK!_

A beaded pillow meets Merlin’s face with surprising force, stinging his cheeks. He flails around, attempting to catch the pillow, but it hits the ground. Merlin rubs his cheek, dramatically wincing in pain.

“Merlin.” Arthur says again, broody as ever in his first moments of waking. “What. Have we said. About volume. In the mornings?” He sits upright, chest slumped forward, arms lolling at his sides.

Merlin scrunches up his face, as though concentrating exceedingly hard, trying desperately to remember this absolutely vital piece of information. “…Less of it?” Merlin offers, shrugging.

Arthur nods in approval, giving him a big, sarcastic, toothy grin. “Yes, Merlin! Yes, you’ve done it – you’ve remembered!” He flops his sheets and blankets to the side, immediately seeming to regret his decision. The chill in the air is more pronounced in this room high up in the castle, and a shiver goes across his chest. He clutches his arms across his torso and says, “Get a fire on, will you?”

Merlin nods and says, “Of course, sire,” and moves to the hearth in the wall. After an acceptable amount of time fiddling aimlessly with the logs, ‘attempting’ to light a fire, he focuses his magic on the thoughts of flame. Instantly a fire appears in the hearth, and Merlin stands, satisfied and warm.

After a typical morning’s disgruntlement, the two men, servant and prince, proceed to Uther’s throne room where a surplus of food sits spread across the oak table. Apples, grapes, pears, and peaches fill the platters in front of them. Fine cheeses sit amongst the fruit, all with fancy foreign names Merlin can never hope to remember. And yes, Merlin’s blabberings about breakfast were true – two kitchen servants come through the archway at the far end of the chamber, carting in plates piled high with toast and a carefully placed poached egg sitting atop each pile.

The two servants place the steaming hot food in front of the two who are already seated at the table, Uther and Morgana. Uther seems to be carving into an apple absentmindedly, face intently concentrated while his mind busies itself. Morgana offers a nod of thanks to the kitchen servants, her eyes as sunken and tired as ever. She rests heavily against the high backed chair, eyes cloudy, perhaps from a sleepless night. Behind her, Gwen looks down at her lady as she attempts to hide concern in her face. She holds a silver pitcher, fidgeting with the handle. Merlin catches her gaze as she looks up and gives a nod of recognition. She, at least, looks slightly relieved, and turns around to retrieve a full pitcher.

“Ahh, Arthur,” Uther says, looking up for the first time since the two men entered. “Please, sit.” He gestures to the empty chair on his left with the carving knife, smiling tightly.

“Father,” Arthur says, offering a short nod. He waits as Merlin moves around to pull out his chair for him, and Merlin carefully moves it back towards the table once his prince is seated.

The two royals get into chatty conversation, and Merlin moves with haste around to the other side of the table, hoping to intercept Gwen at the beverage station. She has lingered for a moment, giving them an opportunity to speak briefly. As he picks up an identical pitcher filled with fresh cool water, he whispers, “How was the evening?”

Gwen shakes her head. “Worse,” she whispers. “I’m worried for her – and my – safety, Merlin.”

Merlin nods, briefly resting his hand atop hers. “I know, Gwen. I’m going to try and talk to her today, see what I can do.”

She smiles, expressing a wordless gratitude. The two turn back to the Pendragons and their ward, where they’re discussing something or other of noble importance. As Gwen and Merlin circle the table, refilling glasses, clearing soiled napkins, retrieving more jam or butter from the kitchens, Uther and Arthur discuss diplomacy and strategy. To Merlin, Uther’s words all say the same thing underneath the opulence: hatred, ignorance, power, fear. The king never even so much as grunts an acknowledgement of Gwen’s or Merlin’s presence, and at least today, that’s for the best. The two of them keep on looking between Morgana and each other, a palpable tension that the Pendragon men are thankfully oblivious to.

Merlin does catch through the meal, though, that there is a feast to begin preparing for in a couple month’s time. Samhain, the thinning of the veil between worlds, is approaching, and the autumnal ceremony is sure to draw nobles from across Camelot’s kingdom.

“The Lady Arienne is to accompany her father, Sir Burchard,” Uther says with a pointed grin. “She’s a fine woman. Serves her people well.”

“Well, her reputation precedes her, then,” Arthur says, half-listening. This is not the first young woman his father has asked Arthur to court, and she certainly won’t be the last. As always, Arthur makes his disinterest clear, much to the chagrin of the king.

Uther takes a final bite from his plate, sopping up the remnants of egg yolk with his crusty bread. “I’ve assured Sir Burchard that you will provide suitable… _personal_ company during their stay,” he says, winking at his son.

Arthur does nothing to attempt to hide the incredulity, bordering on disgust. “Father -” he starts.

“I don’t want to hear a word of it,” Uther says, tapping his empty plate to have it taken away. Merlin quickly grabs it and takes it away to the kitchen as Uther says, “Time and again I bring you opportunity for a queen, and time and again you act like a prepubescent boy around them.”

“Well maybe I’m just not fond of the noble women you’ve introduced –“

is the last thing Merlin hears before moving through the swinging doors into the chaotic kitchen. He dodges his way past the head cook, weaving between steaming pots and pans full of the delicious smells of baking bread, spices for pies, and the sweet aroma of apples cooking away. Merlin tosses the empty plate and utensils into the washing basin, splashing a wave of water onto his tunic. He sighs, resetting to head back into the throne room, but not before sneaking a hand pie from the stack piled high. He grins as he hears the head cook yelling her head off, surely beet red in the face. Snarfing the pie down, dropping crumbs along the way, he rounds the doorway back into the throne room.

“ – considered that my interests may lie elsewhere!” Merlin hears Arthur speaking passionately as he rounds the corner to see the prince leaning forward intently. His face is controlled, but the vein in his temple is distended, revealing a frustration he’s trying to keep at bay. He spots Merlin out of the corner of his eyes and quickly flushes red, slowly shifting to lean back in his seat.

Morgana has suddenly become interested, leaning forward in her own chair, a smirk spreading across her face. “Dear friend, do elaborate,” she says, bringing a hand to rest under her chin. Her bloodshot eyes give her a wired appearance, like she’s made of lightning just looking to strike solid ground. Gwen takes a step towards Morgana, resisting the urge to reach out and put a hand on her shoulder. “Where might we find these pressing interests of yours?”

Merlin can feel an electric energy pulsating around Morgana, undeniably arcane in nature. He slowly walks around to meet Arthur on the other side of the table as the prince squirms in his seat. If the cause of his discomfort wasn’t the current volatile nature of Morgana, he might find the moment rather amusing. Instead, Merlin takes up his instinctual defensive position, eyes locked on Morgana. With a powerful magic in the room, he can’t help but do what he does best – protect Arthur.

“Forget I said anything,” Arthur mumbles, pushing away from the table. “Excuse me, father.” He bows his head in apology, and Uther nods in recognition.

“Aww, come now, Arthur,” Morgana calls. “We were just beginning to have some fun!”

Uther turns his fearsome gaze to Morgana and says, “You will hold your tongue, Morgana, this matter does not concern you.”

She looks right back, not in the least intimidated. “Ah, yes, just like the matter of the druid girl’s execution yesterday did not concern me?” Her words bite, finding purchase in Uther, and he springs on the defense.

“She was well aware of the laws of this land,” He snaps, and then takes a long sip from his cup.

Morgana’s presence in the room shifts. Merlin feels her force grow, consuming the room around them. He winces against the energy that pulsates off of her, completely unstable in nature. His breath quickens as he observes Morgana, the force of her power unfelt by the non-magic users. Merlin looks to Gwen, and he sees her face contorted in concern. Evidently, she’s seen this reaction before, but knows she cannot offer solace in front of the king. She reaches a hand out to Morgana, only to stop herself and clutch her hands in front of her, helpless.

Dark form looming in her chair, she leans toward the king, rage seething out of her. “She was a _child_ ,” she says. Her voice carries depth that sweeps across the room. “She cannot help who she is or the skills she acquires, and you punish her?”

Uther snaps at her retorts, saying, “Her _skills_ , Morgana, could develop into an all-consuming corruption that could destroy all I have created. Your life, Arthur’s life, the whole kingdom would fall into disarray, weak beyond measure, surely you realize that. Arthur certainly does.”

She scoffs, looking to Arthur. “Do you really condone the murder of the druid girl, Arthur?” The question hangs in the air as Arthur fidgets where he sits, silent. “Does her death not leave you with pain, regret?”

He fidgets with the silver ring on his finger, pressing his lips together. He keeps his eyes trained down, away from Morgana’s piercing gaze. “The laws are clear, Morgana,” he says, voice grave. “There can be no exceptions, regardless of age, or rank, or disposition.”

Merlin’s heart sinks at the words. Morgana deflates, but only slightly. Gwen’s eyes fall down to her folded hands, hiding her disappointment. They all know this is the stance of the court, but to hear it spoken so blatantly by their friend always stings.

“That’s my son,” Uther says solemnly. “He knows what must be done to keep Camelot strong, Morgana. You would do well to learn a thing or two from his leadership.”

Arthur stays silent, a mixture of pride and shame wrestling inside him at the tension in the room. When a moment goes by under Morgana’s heated gaze, Arthur moves to stand. “Yes, well, I must see to training preparations.” He clears his throat, adjusting the belt around his waist. He gives a small bow to Uther and Morgana, and says, “Father. My Lady.”

Uther tips his cup towards his son, and Morgana watches him, gaze unwavering, as he and Merlin head towards the door. Merlin casts one last look back at Gwen, hoping to give her a smile of reassurance. She catches his eye, smiling softly as he leaves.


	2. A Rainy Day, the Scent of Pine, and a Secret Revealed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Morgana seeks a listening ear in Merlin. 
> 
> That night, Arthur sends some pretty clear signals to Merlin. 
> 
> Gwen fears something has happened to Morgana when she finds a strange note.
> 
> Merlin eases her worry, and he heads off to find Morgana.
> 
> In the privacy of the forests surrounding Camelot, an unlikely camaraderie is forged.

A pair of guards open the doors for Arthur, and he and Merlin walk down the corridor. A blanket of clouds has descended over Camelot, obscuring the view of the castle’s peaks in the misty sky beyond. Moisture collects in the corners of windows, running down the clear surface. Merlin’s mood is severely dampened after the morning’s breakfast. His mind is forever twisted in conflict, knowing the man he serves remains steadfast in the governing stance on magic, and he fears what might happen to himself, should Arthur find out his true nature. That, combined with the persistent morning’s chill, sends a shiver down Merlin’s spine.

“A little cold getting the best of you?” Arthur asks, glancing over at Merlin. His face is neutral and calculated. The look of his attempt to hide.

Merlin returns the look as he shakes his head, slapping a smile across his face. He hides in his own way, though not so different to Arthur. He says, “Cold? Never. If anything it gives me my boost for the day.” He chuckles to himself, and Arthur manages a short laugh as well before returning to his carefully constructed mask. Merlin allows a few moments to pass before asking, “So what was that back there? With Uther and Morgana?”

“Absolutely none of your business,” Arthur says without hesitation.

Merlin nods, letting another minute or two go by. He decides to change the subject. “I’ve heard lovely things about Lady Arienne –“

“Just leave it alone, Merlin,” Arthur says bluntly. He’s growing stony next to Merlin as they walk.

Nodding once again, he offers up his hands in surrender, effectively dropping the issue for the time being. They finish the rest of the walk to Arthur’s chambers in silence.

“Right then, Merlin,” Arthur says, resting a hand on Merlin’s shoulder. “Before training, I’ll need you to-“

“- polish your armor, shine your boots, sharpen your sword, and prepare a lunch for training,” Merlin says, listing off his responsibilities by rote. He gives a cheeky grin in the direction of the prince, and asks, “Anything else I missed?”

Arthur just stares at him for a moment, smiling warmly. His hand stays resting on Merlin’s shoulder, growing warm with the prolonged contact. 

“… Will that be all, sire?” Merlin asks, trying read him beyond his face.

Arthur blinks quickly - looks back and forth between his hand on Merlin’s shoulder and his eyes. His smile turns from open to tight-lined, and he pats Merlin on the shoulder. “Yes, Merlin, that’ll be all.” He turns away, deflated slightly, heading for the pile of papers stacked high on his desk.

_Interests may lie elsewhere._ Merlin ponders the words spoken earlier at breakfast. It’s a curious way to phrase things, indeed. Merlin mulls it over as he heads to the armory, wondering what it could mean. Logically, he knows, it means his dedication to Camelot. Arthur loves his kingdom more than anything.

But what if he didn’t?

Merlin’s mind drifts to his familiar memory, all to recently, all too long ago. They were returning from a quest: a retrieval of some magical item Uther needed destroyed. On the way back, they had been attacked, and Arthur’s chest had been slashed by a sword. As they camped for the night, Merlin was tending to his wound. He felt his hand resting on Arthur’s collarbone, feeling his breath rise and fall. Firelight was dancing across his pale, freckled skin. All too slow, all too quickly, Arthur was stirring in his sleep. He shifted, almost unconsciously, and wrapped his warm hand around Merlin’s own slender one. So tender, so delicate, he’s almost convinced that it was all a dream. Nothing more. He blinks rapidly, clearing the serene image from his mind as he enters into the armory.

He approaches the cupboard containing Arthur’s belongings – chain mail, boots, solid armor, helmet, sword – and realizes he’s forgotten the key to unlock it. He sighs heavily, smacking his forehead with the heel of his hand in exasperation. _Typical,_ he thinks to himself. He hesitates, turning to peer around the room. The armory is completely empty, save for the extensive collection of hammers, axes, crossbows, maces, and weapons beyond Merlin’s realm of knowledge. He turns back to the cupboard, and focuses his magic into the lock.

_Click!_

The door swings open, the contents just as filthy as Merlin had left them the previous day. He pulls the metal out onto a central table, clanging all the way, and sets to work polishing.

He quickly loses track of time, getting lost in the repetitive nature of scrubbing, rubbing, polishing, and shining all of Arthur’s outerwear. He wonders why he even bothers today with the way the weather is so foul. In a couple of hour’s time, nobody will even be able to tell these pieces were cleaned. So much so is he lost in his thoughts that he fails to notice the sound of the armory door swinging open, or the soft _click-clack_ of heeled shoes on stone, or even the scraping sound of wood against floor as a weight settles on the far end of a bench.

“Still at his beck and call, are you?” Morgana asks, casual and pointed.

Merlin startles, sending metal armor pieces clanging together and causing a cacophony of clatter. He laughs through his momentary embarrassment, nerves settling. He gestures around to the mess around him helplessly and says, “I am his servant, my Lady.”

She shrugs coyly, clasping her hands together on the table’s surface. “Could’ve had me fooled.”

He raises an eyebrow at her inquisitively. She’s still vibrating with energy, like it could explode out of her at any minute. He decides it better than to push the subject. Instead, he turns back to his work, rubbing at a worn patch on Arthur’s boots. “So, do you often come to the armory to startle men half to death?”

She lets out a harsh chuckle, and he hairs on Merlin’s arm stand on end. The air around him seems to crackle. “If only it were that simple,” she says, voice thick with sarcasm. Merlin detects a hint of truth to what she says as she picks at the skin around her nails. The skin has been picked raw, and she’s hiding a tremor in her hands by clasping them tightly together. “No, Merlin, I’m not here to scare you. I’m here to –“

She cuts off suddenly, glancing around the room. Merlin stays focused on the boot in front of him until Morgana is satisfied they’re alone. “I’m here to talk to you,” she says quietly.

He nods, maintaining his casual tone. “Alright,” he says, “I’m here to listen.” He casts a brief smile her way, meeting her tired eyes for a moment before turning back to the table.

She takes a cleansing breath, and the air turns still and calm. “Do you trust me, Merlin?” Her voice attempts his same blasé tone, but her words quiver slightly on the way out.

Without a moment’s hesitation, he says, “I do, Morgana.”

“No matter what?” Her voice is softer, more vulnerable. He glances over and sees her digging her nails into the tabletop.

He nods, looking up into her piercing green eyes. “You’ve never given me any reason to think otherwise.” A contented grin settles on his face, and a ghost of the same appears on hers.

Her eyes flit around the room and her mouth hangs open, like she’s about to speak but can’t quite find the right words. She closes and opens her mouth a few times over before finally saying, “You know about my nightmares.” It’s not a question.

He nods again.

“And… you know about the fire Gwen took fault for,” she says, plodding along. She grits her teeth, wrestling with her mind and judgment.

He nods again, encouraging her on. “Yes, I heard.”

She clams up, twisting her hands together. Her jaw clenches and unclenches, looking like she’s chewing on invisible marshmallow root. Again, that crackling energy emerges, wafting though the air. It bristles the hair on Merlin’s head, and he watches as her breathing becomes unsteady. She grips her hands tighter and tighter, as though she’s trying to force her energy into compliance. “Merlin, it’s- I can’t – ” Her breathing turns to short gasps, and the static magic makes her hair stand on end.

“It’s alright,” he says calmly, putting down his polishing and moving around the table. He sits next to Morgana, pushing through the repelling magic screaming for him to stay away. “Can I take your hands?” he asks, holding out his own.

She nods, placing her clasped hands in his. Her shallow wheezing causes her face to turn pink, and with his free hand he wraps his arm around her back. He wants nothing more than to squirm and writhe in the presence of this magic, a force that has been repressed and squashed within this woman, now demanding to be seen. He says nothing. He lets it move through him as he breathes steadily. He keeps to his own rhythm, saying the same thing over and over again in his mind:

_You are safe._

The intensity begins to pass, and Morgana’s breath returns to her. She steadies her breathing to her own pace, gripping Merlin’s hand in her own. It hurts, but Merlin doesn’t care. He sees it helping her, and he keeps going with his breath like a metronome. Over the next few minutes, the crackling energy fades away, leaving Morgana tired and spent. She looks at him, investigating his face, looking for any sign of fear or disgust. Her desperate eyes search his, and she says, “I just need someone to say it.” Moisture appears in the corners of her eyes. “I just need to hear someone say what I know.”

Merlin stays silent, quietly anticipating what’s next.

“It’s magic, Merlin.” There is terror in her eyes as she admits it aloud. “It’s magic, and I can’t stop it. I’ve tried, but the nightmares, the visions, they just keep getting worse, and I’m so afraid I’m going to hurt myself, or worse, Guinevere – ”

“Shh,” he says, pulling her into a gentle embrace. “It’s alright.” He pats her on the back, comforting her as best as he knows. She rests her head on his shoulder, taking deep breaths in and out. He releases the hug, bringing his face level with hers. “I know that you’re scared. I know you’re feeling lost, without a sense of control.” He speaks deliberately and with strength, and she nods along with the words he says. “But, we can’t discuss this right here and right now – it’s too dangerous. For both of us.” Merlin glances around again, making sure nobody is peering in through windows or cracked doors. Then, he says in a low voice, “Meet me after nightfall at the entrance to the Darkling Woods. We’ll be able to talk more openly there, alright?”

She nods quickly, a spark of hope behind her eyes. She clasps his hands in hers and says breathlessly, “Thank you, Merlin.”

He smiles once again, reassuring her. “You’re not alone in this, Morgana. I’ll speak with you this evening.” He pats her forearm, gesturing with his head over to the door. “Now, best be off before the king calls in the knights to look for his missing ward. You know how Uther gets when he has one of his fits.”

At that she scoffs, rolling her eyes. “Those dim-wits couldn’t trace me if they tried.”

Merlin laughs as she stands to leave, constructing her careful, coy smile. “Thanks again, Merlin. I won’t be late.” She gives a brief curtsy, and heads back out the way she came.

She leaves, and Merlin is left with the feeling of earth settling back into place. He sighs, looking towards where she left. He feels a mix of unease, worry, and – dare he say it – hope, at the thought of sharing his magic with someone like him.

Someone comes through the door to the armory, and Merlin quickly looks away, moving about in his clumsy business-as-usual manner. He gathers up Arthur’s mostly-polished armor, juggling the metal and leather in his arms. Giving a quick nod to the knight examining crossbows, he exits into the greater hall, hurriedly heading back to Arthur’s chambers.

The rest of the day passes by rote. Training miserably proceeds on, misty rain clinging to the knights. Council meetings are held in the dim, grey light of the overcast sky. Meals are eaten, laundry is washed, and rooms are tidied, all allowing Merlin to be half-present throughout the day. He mindlessly tends to his duties, his stomach turning over in anticipation of the coming evening.

The night approaches, and Merlin prepares Arthur’s bath. He heats bucket after bucket of water, ensuring the temperature is warm enough against the chilled air, yet cool enough so as to not cook the prince. He pours each bucket in, watching the water crash into the growing reservoir, steam rising up and out. What a luxury it would be, he thinks, to sink into that warm water, melting all responsibilities away for a while. Resting back, like he’s seen Arthur do so often, drifting between sleep and consciousness. He reflects on how peaceful Arthur seems in those moments, where he’s no longer a prince: just a person having a bath. Merlin feels his cheeks flush at the thought. He turns away from the water, retrieving the last bucket of hot water from the hearth, pouring it gently into the bath.

Arthur sighs from behind his vanity wall, and Merlin hears a loud series of cracks as he presumably twists out his back, popping the joints. “What a day, eh, Merlin?” he says, voice tired.

Merlin chuckles, swirling the water around to encourage the steam to take out some heat. “You could say that,” he says calmly. He pulls his hand out of the bath and flicks it dry, sending droplets back down into the water. “Your bath is ready, sire.” He steps aside as Arthur rounds the corner of his vanity.

Arthur stretches an arm around in a circle, keeping the other securely fastened to the maroon drape wrapped around his waist. “I’m absolutely knackered.” He yawns as he removes his towel, flinging it at Merlin’s face and obstructing his vision. Merlin scrambles with the fabric as he tries to disentangle it from around his head, sputtering at the nuisance. By the time he’s pulled the towel free, Arthur is fully submerged in the water. Arthur half-sighs, half-groans as he relaxes into the warmth, closing his eyes, resting his head on the rim. Merlin carefully folds the towel and places it on the edge of Arthur’s bed, turning down the sheets and blankets for the evening. “Merlin,” Arthur mumbles from behind him, splashing slightly in the water.

“Hmm?” Merlin murmurs, fluffing the pillows, gently smoothing out any bumps or creases. He can feel a lingering warmth in his cheeks, and he convinces himself its just the heat from the hearth and the steam.

“You… you wouldn’t happen to have any sprigs of pine tucked away anywhere around here, would you?” Arthur’s voice is lower now as the tension of the day evaporates away.

Merlin feels his heart quicken for a moment and smiles to himself. “Yes, Arthur, I do.” He fumbles in his front pocket, pulling out the fresh-smelling piece of forest. He turns to face Arthur, holding it up.

“Would you –,” Arthur says, tapping on the sides of the basin. His cheeks are flushed pink as well, Merlin notices – probably from the temperature of the water. He ultimately extends his hand towards Merlin, eyes intense and honest. “Would you bring it to me? I… well… I rather enjoy the scent.”

Merlin beams, taking in this moment of vulnerability. He nods quickly, chest light, and says, “Yes, Arthur. Of course.” He crosses over quickly and places the pine in Arthur’s open hand, and he finds his own enclosed within Arthur’s. His touch is warm and present: a comforting safety. He looks into Arthur’s blue eyes and finds them rather soft and open.

“Thank you, Merlin,” he says quietly, keeping his eyes on Merlin’s. His whole being seems to be relaxing, melting into the water around him. His thumb grazes unconsciously across Merlin’s hand; an action he is convinced Arthur is entirely unaware of every time he does it.

Merlin savors the touch, enjoying the warmth that spreads from his hand outward to the rest of him. “My pleasure, Arthur.” He always feels his safest with Arthur, just like this. A servant and a prince, home with each other.

Arthur, ever-so-slowly, shifts his grasp on Merlin’s hand so that it is positioned in a more presentational manner. The back of Merlin’s hand remains exposed, while Arthur delicately holds his fingers. Arthur brings the back of the hand to his lips, placing a gentle kiss there. In the fading daylight of the soft grey sky beyond, with fire burning in the hearth, Arthur’s kiss sends a wave of indulgence through Merlin.

Merlin’s takes a slow breath in, enjoying the sensation of his hand melting like honey against Arthur’s lips. All too soon, Arthur pulls away, leaving a lingering sensation spreading through the both of them. He releases Merlin’s hand and drops the pine into the warm water, immediately releasing the crisp fragrance of the earth. Merlin stands upright, face as warm as ever, and moves away from the basin. The two of them linger in the moment, breathing in the sweet scent that brings them both security. Its as though the forest is right there with them, lulling them into the night. Arthur rests his head against the water basin once again, closing his eyes, content.

Merlin brings up his hand to examine where Arthur placed his lips, half-expecting to see golden light coursing through his veins from that point. He smiles, tracing the exact spot, while Arthur rests.

_Not a dream,_ he decides, insides filling with light.

As the light fades completely, night falls over Camelot. Merlin helps Arthur prepare for sleep, taking care to discard the bathwater and tuck the basin away once again. He feels completely at ease as he helps Arthur dress for the night, adjusting his nightclothes with the same care as he always attempts. Arthur simply gazes at him, eyes clear and gentle, content in silence.

“Nights are always a bit easier, aren’t they?” Merlin asks, opening the sheets for Arthur to slide into bed. “Not so much fanfare?”

Arthur smiles, grunting slightly as he wrestles into the sheets. “It seems that way, doesn’t it?” He gives the pillow a few firm whacks before laying down, saying, “Nights are still a battle, though – ” he smirks, “ – considering I’ve still got to deal with you and your lack of tact every waking moment of the day.”

Merlin chuckles, propping another pillow underneath Arthur’s head. He cradles his head in his hands, sliding a second cushion atop the first. He lowers Arthur’s head back down and pulls his hand away. “I consider it an honor to constantly get under the skin of the highest prat in all the land,” he jokes.

This earns an eye roll from Arthur as he groans, turning on his side. “You really are completely insufferable,” he says, hiding an endearing smile.

“Oh, don’t give me so much credit, insufferability is clearly your area of expertise,” Merlin says, grinning mischievously by his bed.

“Insufferability?” Arthur asks, eyebrow raised. “Is that another one of your made-up words?”

“…Yes?” Merlin offers, shrugging his shoulders up to his ears.

Arthur scoffs, moving to smack him, but Merlin quickly darts out of the way. The two of them smile, laughing lightly, looking between each other.

Merlin lingers for a moment, drinking in Arthur’s restful and serene image. Finally, he says, “Will that be all, Arthur?”

Arthur nods slightly. He says, “Yes, Merlin. You may go.”

Merlin gives a deep bow, takes one final look at his prince, and turns to leave, filled with a familiar peace.

He exits the room and sees Gwen barreling down the hallway, face contorted in worry. The moment she sees Merlin, she breathes a sigh of relief, and says, “Merlin! I was just coming to retrieve you, Gaius told me you were still with Arthur.”

Merlin nods, noting the anxiety coursing through Gwen. “Yes, but we’ve – well – he’s finished evening preparations,” he says, suddenly aware of his stature as servant once again. “Is everything alright?” He asks, knowing full well that something is amiss.

“Morgana’s nowhere to be found, Merlin,” Gwen mutters in a frantic whisper. If she noticed his slip in language, she doesn’t call attention to it, and bless her for that. She grabs his hand and pulls him along beside her, headed towards Morgana’s chambers. “She’s left a note, but something seems amiss. She never misses our – well – her nightly routine, it helps us – well – her, sleep.” Gwens cheeks suddenly flush rose at her words, and Merlin feels an understanding for her position. She looks up with concern in her eyes, and he simply passes by the moment without bringing attention.

“I’m sure it’s nothing to be worried about,” Merlin says, knowing certainly where Morgana could be. He keeps the information to himself, though – he knows one eavesdropper could mean the end of him.

The two of them enter into Morgana’s chambers, and everything appears usual; the ornate furniture is all quite tidy, and even her vanity mirror is completely organized. The scorch mark on one of the bed posts is undeniable, however, even though the lilac canopy drapes have since been replaced. Gwen hurriedly walks over to Morgana’s desk, bringing over a small slip of parchment. “Here, look, it doesn’t make sense,” she says, handing it over.

It reads:

Guinevere,

I’ll be at the tavern until late. A guard told me I could never outlast him on mead, and you know how I love a good challenge. Don’t wait for me to return – I am unsure as to when I will arrive.

x Morgana

Merlin chuckles as he reads the paper, shaking his head. “It’s certainly out of character, but she is full of surprises, as we know.” He folds up the paper and hands it back to Gwen. “I’m certain she’s alright. If anyone knows how to hold their own against a Camelot guard, it’s Morgana.”

Gwen nods, unconvinced. “I just worry, Merlin. With the state she’s in, I fear… I don’t want her to get into any trouble.” She gnaws on her bottom lip, wrapping her arms around herself.

He places his hands on her shoulders, bringing his head down level with hers. “I’ll go be with her,” he says, confidently meeting her gaze. The best way to lie, he’s found, is by telling as much of the truth as possible. “I won’t be able to convince her to return, but I’ll make sure she’s looked after. Okay?”

Gwen nods again, smiling back at him. “Alright, Merlin. Just… make sure she doesn’t step on anyone’s toes,” she says, mustering as much lightheartedness as she can.

“I’ll do everything I can,” Merlin says. He gives her shoulders a reassuring squeeze before letting go. Turning back to the door, he says, “Don’t spend all night watching for her arrival, Gwen. Get some sleep!”

“As though you could do the same if it were Arthur,” she says, a smirk in her voice.

“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that,” he quickly retorts. “Sleep tight, Gwen!” And with that, he’s out the door, heading out of the castle.

The cold air of approaching autumn blows straight through Merlin’s light jacket and he shivers, tucking his head down into his protective neck kerchief. The light crunching of the forest floor under his boots is his only company as he enters into the Darkling Woods, walking for a few minutes before seeing a figure up in the distance. There, perched on a tree stump, sits Morgana, wrapped tightly in a purple crushed-velvet traveling cloak. She stands as he approaches, closing the gap between the two.

“I was beginning to fear you’d changed your mind,” she says, eyes flitting across his face. “It’s absolutely freezing out here, I was hardly going to wait a moment longer.”

Merlin shivers against the cold, looking down at her. “I had to speak to Gwen after my evening duties,” he says, cheeks warming at the thought of earlier events. He shifts away from the distraction of Arthur, focusing on Morgana, incredulity thick in his voice as he says, “The tavern, Morgana? When have you _ever_ set foot in the tavern?”

She scoffs, eyebrows knitting together in feigned frustration, and smacks him lightly on the arm. “It was the best I could come up with on short notice,” she says.

“Well,” Merlin sighs, and begins leading Morgana deeper into the forest. “Let’s get somewhere a little warmer, shall we?”

“I thought we were here to discuss my magic,” she says, confused, but willing to keep pace with him.

“We are,” he says, eyes scanning the dark forest, “but we can hardly do that when we’re shivering in our shoes, now can we?”

At that she does not argue, and they head a bit deeper into the forest. Merlin keeps his eyes wide open as he adjusts to the low light, scanning as far as he’s able to see. They walk on for some time, tripping over tree roots and getting caught in stray brambles, both grumbling to themselves the whole way. Eventually, he finds what he’s looking for – an abandoned stone structure, about ten feet high, big enough and secluded enough to get a fire going.

“There,” Merlin says, pointing to the building. “We’ll have enough cover there to start a fire. Now come on, help me gather up some firewood.” He begins picking up stray branches that have fallen to the ground, and Morgana joins him in gathering up wood without hesitation. Once their arms are laden down with as much as they can carry, they enter into the structure.

The building is simply a stone room – bare floor and walls, roof partially collapsed inward. Shelves have been carved into the walls, holding nothing but broken glass bottles and remnants of twigs and leaves. Their footsteps are soft as they cross to the center of the stone floor that’s covered in a thin layer of dust and soil. The two of them dump the wood onto the floor, and Merlin gets to work building a fire.

As he works silently, Morgana grows impatient. “Has this all been a ruse to get me out in the middle of the forest to watch your lackluster fire constructing skills?”

He lets out a heavy breath, piling sticks and twigs into some semblance of a cone shape for the fire. “You said you wanted someone to say it,” he says, eyes focused on the wood in front of him. “You said you needed to hear someone say what you know to be true.”

“Yes,” she says, a question in her voice, “I did.”

He keeps his gaze on his hands as he works, feeling the fear of what he’s about to do pounding in his head. His pulse begins throbbing through his body, making it feel like his body is swelling. “Well, Lady Morgana,” he says, “what do you need to hear?”

She is silent for a few breaths while Merlin continues fiddling with the structure of the fire. He sees her begin pacing out of the corner of her eye, but his eyes remain trained forward. The crackle of her energy flicks through Merlin’s body, and he shakes it out, playing it off as a shiver.

“Morgana –,” he says, finally turning to look to her. He’s right on the edge, the words he knows he’s about to say sitting right at the tip of his tongue, waiting for the right moment. “ – you’re safe here. There is no danger.” He begins to shred some wood, tearing it apart into light strips to serve as the tinder. “But I cannot say it for you. You need to say it for yourself.”

“But I already have, Merlin, in the armory.” She’s flustered as she twists her hands around, trying to maintain control.

“No, Morgana,” he says firmly, looking her straight on. “You said what it _is_. Not how it relates to you. Not what it means to you.”

She stops pacing, looking down at him where he crouches. Her mouth is held tightly shut, hands pressed together against her torso. Her face scrunches, anxiety eating at her as she feels the familiar surge of energy. Merlin feels it too, and focuses on the grounding sensation of the stone under his feet.

“Own it, Morgana,” he says. “It has no power over you.”

“How would you know?” she snaps, eyes briefly flashing bright green, wind whipping through the chamber for a slight second before stopping. Merlin covers his face to prevent any dust swirling into his eyes. She gasps as she looks around, hair and fabric settling back in place. “Did I- did I just-“

“Yes, Morgana,” he says, encouraging and calm. “You did. How did it feel?”

“Frightening,” she says, backing away. “Like I don’t want to hurt you.” Her head flits around the room, like she’ll be able to see the magic coming.

He shakes his head, standing slowly to approach her. “Not about me. Forget about me. How did it feel to tap into that energy?” He keeps his voice steady, palms outstretched, an offering of peace and protection.

She hesitates, staying stationary. As she looks into his eyes, so steadfast, her face begins to relax. Her breathing steadies, and she closes her eyes. “It felt… powerful.”

“Yes, okay,” he says gently, backing up once again, keeping his eyes on her. He senses a shift in energy from electric into something more solid. Undefinable, less volatile. Like a shadow. Cold, direct, and strong. “What else?” He asks of her, moving back to the fire. His heart continues to flutter as he builds the courage to do what he knows he must.

With her eyes closed, she turns inward to herself. “It’s… it’s as though it’s always been there. Waiting to be discovered.”

“Like it cannot help but move through you, no matter how badly you want to keep it at bay,” he adds, keeping his eyes trained carefully towards her.

Her eyes slowly open, confusion and recognition spreading across her face. “Yes,” she says. “Yes, exactly like that.”

“Like it’s an extension of yourself,” he continues, “and to deny it is to deny the core of who you are.” His ears ring from pressure, his palms sweat, and growing fear tells him to run away. Despite the feeling, he remains planted, eyes glued to Morgana.

She nods, puzzlement on her face as she approaches him. “Precisely,” she says. “But… how could you know, Merlin? You’re a servant.” It’s not meant as an insult, merely a statement of facts.

“Ahh,” he shakes his head, clenching his fists to keep his hands steady. “That is the question isn’t it?”

Before he has a moment to lose his nerve, he extends his hand towards the fire and mutters a quiet incantation. He feels the golden surge of magic through his being, and a fire bursts to life within the wood. The fire crackles happily, and the two of them look on in astonishment. With a second wave of magic, he focuses on the flames themselves, and they curl around themselves, forming into the shape of a raven in flight. Merlin releases a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. He lets out a long peal of laughter, of all things, as he realizes what he’s done. He forces himself to look at Morgana who stands, mouth agape, staring at the dancing fire.

Her eyes begin to fill with tears, and she clutches her hands to her heart at the sight. She seems to have trouble catching her breath as she looks on, eyes glistening in the firelight. “You have magic?” she asks, scarcely able to believe it.

“I was born with it,” he says. Pride and confidence suddenly surge through him, a strength he hardly ever shows to anyone. His mind races – relief to suddenly lighten his burden to bear, fear at being known for who he is, worry that Morgana will react poorly –

Morgana pulls him into a hug, crying with relief. She clings to him, grabbing to the back of his jacket, desperate that he doesn’t run away. He wraps his arms around her, holding firmly to the velvety smooth cloak hanging on her shoulders. He finds himself smiling wide, tears of his own falling down his face. He’s an emotional mess, but so is she, and they just hold onto each other, hanging on to this moment. They stay like that for a while. Nothing but their sniffles, laughter, and the crackling of the fire fill the silence around them.

After some time, Morgana says, “We’re not alone anymore, are we, Merlin?” Her voice is thick after crying, and she pulls away to properly wipe her tears away.

“No,” he replies, his own voice just as dense. “I don’t think we are.”

She ferociously rubs at her face, hoping to dry her skin of the tears and snot that have been running freely down. “Oh, Mother,” she says, chuckling to herself in a mixture of amusement and embarrassment. “If you tell a single soul you saw me in this state I’ll have Uther throw you in the stocks for a week.”

He laughs, collapsing onto the floor, suddenly overwhelmingly tired from the emotional outpour. “I wouldn’t dream of it,” he says, laying back on the cold stone. “Besides, I would never want to get on the wrong side of my first student.” He smirks, looking up at her from where he lies on the ground.

She looks down at him, shocked, mouth hanging open once again. “…Student?” she asks, unconvinced.

“Mm-hmm,” he nods. “Someone needs to show you how to stay safe in Camelot, right under the nose of the king.”

She seems doubtful, and actually steps backward from reeling at the thought. “You… teach me?”

“Yep,” he says, popping the ‘p’ sound to drive the point home. “That is, if you’ll have me as your covert magical tutor, of course.”

She scoffs, regaining some of her aloof composure. “Yes, I certainly will have to weigh out my options for secret underground sorcery teachers,” she says, voice soaked in her familiar sarcasm. “When do we start?” She crosses her arms, getting right down to business.

He sits up, gesturing around himself at his surroundings. “There’s no time like the present,” he says, slapping on his goofy smile.

She smiles, her eyes crinkling at the corners, and she joins him to sit beside him. “Start at the beginning, and go from there,” she orders.

They speak for hours on end, talking about their own experiences of discovering their magic, how to sense the magic in the world around them, and the basics of using magic. Merlin is absolutely elated at having someone to share this knowledge with.

It is truly a gift to be seen in this way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's a wrap on chapter two! I just enjoy watching these characters be open and honest with each other, you know? It must've been absolutely nerve-wracking for Morgana to confess her secret. The Merlin that lives in my head would see that for what it is and meet her where she's at. These young adults are just trying their best, and, to their credit, they do a pretty bang-up job most of the time on their own. 
> 
> But it always helps to have a shoulder to rest on. 
> 
> I also enjoy watching a more lighthearted and tender interaction between Arthur and Merlin. In moments of quiet, its nice to see that they can take comfort in each other.


	3. Promises, Practices, and Breakfast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Merlin makes an offer to Morgana. 
> 
> Gaius "educates" Merlin about the consequences of his actions.
> 
> Arthur and Merlin share a simple meal.

The next month or so pass in this same way; by day, the young warlock and the novice witch tend to their duties before their enthralling nights. Merlin always completes his evening routine with Arthur, more and more often ending with a kiss on the hand. He always secretly hopes for the moment Arthur extends his hand to hold his own, relishing in the tender touch every time it comes. Merlin never fails to bring a sprig of pine to freshen Arthur’s bath – a small token of care to his overworked, insufferable, and loyal friend.

One morning, shortly after autumn is welcomed to Camelot, Merlin finds a fine leather pouch hanging on his door hinge. It’s small and simple, something suitable for garnering herbs. But it’s very well made; the leather is smooth and gleaming with hints of cherry-red amidst the brown hue. The lining within is forest green and smooth as silk. As Merlin examines the pouch, he discovers a small torn piece of parchment. It reads:

Half-wit,

Don’t let me hear you say I never gave you anything.

Dutifully yours,

Dollop-head

A gift. From Arthur. Merlin’s chest starts to flutter, palms growing sweaty as they clutch the parchment. He feels warm all over. He’s never received a gift from anyone other than his mother. And, well, Gaius if the magic book counts. Which, to Merlin, it does. What does it mean? His head spins. He looks back at the words, the carefully printed ‘dollop-head’ written across the page. Is he using it as a code name? A nickname?

A pet name?

Merlin thought he hated the term and yet uses it right here in front of his eyes. His head fills with questions he couldn’t hope to have the answer to, so he pushes them away to be dealt with at another time. When he sees Arthur that day, he expresses his thanks. To which the prince replies,

“It’s nothing, Merlin, really. Simply a token of my… appreciation.” His words are measured and calculated as he looks up from his desk to Merlin. His cheeks are slightly flushed, but perhaps it’s simply the proximity to the fire. Merlin can’t help but gaze back, searching his eyes, until Arthur looks back down to his paperwork.

All the while, Morgana and Merlin select nights at random to meet up at their isolated shelter in the woods. Merlin chances bringing his book of magic every now and then, letting Morgana search through the pages and practice anything she feels drawn to. They speak about ideas around magic, or how their connection to magic is similar and different. Merlin reveals that his magic is rooted in elemental nature, while Morgana’s feels more alchemical, more ritualistic. Her power is raw and wild, driven by ever-strengthening emotions and spiritual life, and it must be channeled through items or intentions to have a specific effect. For Merlin, his magic feels like breathing, like air on the breeze. His magic is imaginative, lighting up in different ways depending on the seasons, the weather, or how he’s feeling. They take great joy in trusting each other with their deepest and truest secrets, and they feel equally accomplished with their ability to meet without drawing the attention of anyone in Camelot.

On this particular evening, Merlin decides to discuss something that’s been on his mind since their midnight rendezvous began. As they walk back towards the castle, he asks Morgana, “Have you heard of The Great Dragon?”

She glances briefly to look at him quizzically, taking care not to trip over any roots. “You mean the dragon Uther keeps prisoner in the bowels of the castle?”

This surprises Merlin, his eyebrows raising to cause wrinkles across his forehead. “So you know of him?”

“Yes,” she says, not offering any sort of explanation. “What about him?”

He quiets for a moment, breathing quicker than usual as he attempts not to catch his already fraying trousers on any thickets or thorn bushes. “I, erm, speak with him sometimes,” he mutters.

Surprised, she lets out a low laugh. “You grow more and more fascinating day by day,” she says, smacking him on the shoulder. “Why are you telling me this now?”

He gulps nervously. “Well, he’s been an awful lot of help for me up until now, and he imparts a lot of wisdom I’ve put to good use.” He swallows. Decides to take a chance. He spouts, “Iwascuriousastowhetheryou’dliketobeintroducedtohim.”

Merlin plods along ahead, failing to notice Morgana has stopped dead in her tracks. When no response comes after a few moments, Merlin turns to the side to find she is several paces behind him. He looks back to her, and she stands stock still. She’s hardly breathing, just looking on at Merlin in complete and utter fascination. “You. Introduce me. To a dragon.”

He nods, suddenly unsure as to whether this was the right thing to do. The Great Dragon has, on many occasions, expressed disdain for Morgana. In fact, any time Merlin brings her up, he immediately questions him as to why their friendship persists. The dragon is so completely and utterly convinced that Morgana is doomed to a life of corruption, evil, and misery, it seems that no amount of persuasion from Merlin could convince him otherwise. Doubt takes root in his stomach and he says to Morgana, “You know what? Actually, I’m taking your reaction as a queue you’d rather not, so let’s forget I ever –“

“Take me to meet The Great Dragon at the end of this week,” she says, passionate and direct. There’s a fire behind her eyes he rarely sees. It’s like her whole body vibrates with excitement she can hardly contain.

At that Merlin stops short, heart skipping a beat, half from excitement, half from an internalized dread. “Alright,” he says, resuming motion. “But there are a few things you should know –“

“– I’m sure I’ll be able to handle myself, Merlin,” she says, skipping up alongside him. She is filled an intense curiosity at the thought of meeting the last living dragon, completely oblivious to Merlin’s hesitant mood. “He’s the last of his kind, he’s got to be almost a thousand years old, how dangerous could he really be?” She proceeds ahead, completely blasé about the excitement to come.

“I suppose you’ll see for yourself,” he says with a hesitant chuckle. “Just try to keep in mind –“

“– I’m perfectly capable of decency towards magical creatures, Merlin, especially those that have been tortured, abused, and imprisoned by Camelot’s excuse for a king. You need not worry about me.” A smile creeps onto her face, her eyes completely lost in an imagined future.

He continues to insist, “But he’s not just a magical creature, Morgana, he’s a dragon –“

“Enough, Merlin,” she snaps, a jolt running through her. He can almost see the sparks of energy behind her eyes.

He watches as she shifts her demeanor; she transforms from his confidante in magic, his friend, into the king’s ward, full and arrogant, in the space of a breath. She’s grown confident in her skill in the time they’ve shared. She’s powerful, hungry, and isn’t afraid to throw her weight where she needs it.

He looks her over, and decides it better than to push the topic any further. Despite their connection, he remains a servant in the light of day. He submits, saying, “Of course, my Lady.” He averts his gaze, instead looking ahead to the secret entrance the two of them use to move freely at night. “At the end of this week, you will wait for me at the entrance to the catacombs. Use caution.” It’s a command, but he frames it as a suggestion of intrigue.

It catches her attention. She smirks, saying, “Well, well, a little caution, a little danger. It seems we have an enthralling night ahead of us.” With a waggle of her fingers, she says, “Good evening, Merlin.” She proceeds ahead of him, easily muttering a quick incantation to open the lock on the door’s entrance, and heads down the tunnel to the castle, cloak billowing behind her.

Merlin’s left watching her go with a knot in his stomach and a lump in his throat.

_What have I done?_

***

“HOW COULD YOU BE SO _STUPID_?”

Gaius greets the morning by bellowing over Merlin. He curls inward, internally stabbing his own heart over and over again. After informing Gaius of his plan, and now seeing his unhinged reaction, he’s a puddle of regret, worry, and shame.

“WHEN will you learn, Merlin, that you are NOT IMMUNE to the CONSEQUENCES of your ACTIONS AND WORDS?” Gaius paces up and down the length of the chamber, face deep red. He’s never been one to hide his true feelings, and now, his anger is completely on display.

Merlin, desperate to try and defend himself, sheepishly says, “I didn’t think – ”

“PRECISELY!” Gaius shouts, arms flailing in emphasis. “Because if you _were_ thinking, you would have known that introducing Morgana to The Great Dragon could not be a more destructive plan!” He sits briefly, then immediately stands back up, unable to stop moving. “You obviously can’t go through with it,” Gaius continues, “because one look at Morgana and the Dragon will end her right on the spot!”

“How can you be so sure?” Merlin fires back, a glimmer of defense for Morgana.

“Because,” Gaius says, “The Great Dragon is of the belief that Morgana is destined to be your doom and, by connection, the doom of Camelot!” A vein in his neck is distended as his breathing becomes increasingly heavy.

“And is that what you believe?” Merlin asks. Gaius’ anger bleeds into him, spurring him into an aggressive nature. “That Morgana is doomed to be an evil and corrupt monster?”

Gaius pauses at the question, anger fading for a moment into incredulity. “Of course not,” he says fiercely, “you know that. I believe Morgana has a good heart and needs good guidance.”

“So who’s to say that the Dragon won’t see what you see and offer that to her?” Merlin straightens up, coming back to his own. “Who’s to say a dragon can know the true fate of anyone without ever meeting them?”

Gaius opens his mouth to respond, and he finds he can’t counter Merlin’s words. He purses his lips. Opens his mouth again, raising his hand for emphasis. Clamps it shut again. Lets out a heavy sigh. He deflates, sinking back down to the dining table. “I’m afraid it’s not so simple.” He holds the warm bowl of porridge between his hands, looking down into its contents for the words to say. “Dragons are proud creatures, Merlin. And stubborn. They are not so quick to be persuaded to change their minds.”

“Not so different from Morgana,” Merlin retorts with a dark laugh. He pushes the porridge around in his bowl absentmindedly as he settles his mind.

“Indeed,” Gaius says morosely.

They both tend to their porridge, scraping spoonful after spoonful out of the well-worn bowls. Merlin silently mulls over Gaius’ response and the warnings he shared as he finishes one bowl, then two, of the warming and filling breakfast. The meal helps to warm against the constant encroaching chill of autumn. The windows to their chambers are fogged over due to the difference in temperature between their mild room and the crisp, cool air of the outdoors.

As Merlin washes up their breakfast dishes, he looks out the window and notices the colors of the surrounding forest. Warming shades of yellow, orange, and red spread across the treetops, setting the whole forest aflame in the light. The sun has not yet peeked over the horizon at this time; the days grow shorter and shorter, and with the growing dark comes a growing sense of melancholy within Merlin. It comes every year, and he knows to expect the downcast mood through the darker months. He notices a somber stillness in nature reflected back in his own heart, making him more easily prone to moments of vulnerability. He sighs, chest growing comfortable and heavy, as he resets with the image of the forest in his mind.

“I’m sorry, Gaius,” he says quickly, inviting the downcast feeling he’s been pushing aside. He keeps his eyes trained out the window as he puts the bowls aside to dry. “I should have come to you first before doing anything.” He tweaks his mouth to the side – an old tick from when he feels upset.

“Yes,” Gaius says sternly, “you should have.”

Merlin sighs, chest collapsing inward, and he closes his eyes, head lolling forward. He hates letting Gaius down more than anything.

“But Merlin,” Gaius starts after a moment’s silence. He stands from the table, moving over to his dried herb shelving to examine its contents. “I know you always do what you think is right.” He pushes jars aside, taking a count of the various herbs he has. “I just want you to look after yourself, Merlin,” he says quietly, barely audible from across the room. Merlin turns to face him and finds Gaius looking over to him as well. “You’re like a son to me.” He smiles briefly, compassion flushing out any lingering anger.

Merlin smiles, a warmth radiating out from his heart. He crosses over to Gaius, pats him on the shoulder, and pulls him into a tight hug. He squeezes his eyes shut as he puts as much love into the embrace as he can. “I know, Gaius.” He pulls away, full of gratitude. “And I’m thankful for that.”

Gaius’ eyes, he finds, are slightly mistier than usual, and he quickly turns away to clear his throat. “Well,” he says, “I must certainly put that to good use, then.” He peruses through the dried herbs once again before announcing, “I’ll need you to fetch me some herbs today, Merlin. Hawthorne, elderberry, and mint, if you would.”

Merlin nods at once, heading back into his room to gather his things. “Of course,” he says. “I’ll have a look for them now.”

As he trots away, Gaius calls, “And be sure to take that fine leather pouch with you – I’m certain it would please our crowned prince to see you using it.”

Merlin halts immediately, heart leaping into his chest. “I don’t know what you mean, Gaius – ”

“ – Worry not, Merlin,” he says with a hint of playfulness. “There are very few as observant as I. Perhaps not even you and Arthur.”

He laughs dryly, his mouth suddenly feeling full of sand. “The pouch was just a gesture of appreciation; I’m sure lots of masters give their servants gifts once in a while.”

“I’m sure they do,” Gaius says, turning back to his work with a smirk. “Go on now – don’t forget about the herbs, Merlin.”

He blushes at the exchange, his face as pink as a peach. He quickly gathers up the pouch, tucks a few lengths of twine into the pockets, and rushes out the door.

He walks briskly down the corridor in the pre-dawn light, anxious energy coursing through him. He knows he just needs to get out, into the forest, to get away from his complicated mess for a bit. He shakes his wrists out at his sides, hoping to expel some of his anxiety, as he heads down the central staircase and out into the chilly morning air. Taking a deep, full breath, all the way down to his toes, he jogs down towards the eastern gate to head out into the woods. He nods to the guards who let him pass through without issue, hardly turning their heads to face his direction. One of the few blessings of being Arthur’s servant is his respected invisibility: well known to all, yet hardly given the time of day by most.

He heads off into the protective cover of the woods, insulating himself from the chaos and confusion contained within the castle. He mulls it all over in his head – Gwen’s worry and fear, Morgana’s dangerous arrogance, fear of letting Gaius down, and Arthur.

_Arthur._

He pictures his bellowing laughter, the kind that overtakes his whole body. The way his brow wrinkles when he’s reading a document he can’t understand, and looks up to Merlin for help to interpret. How when Arthur looks at him recently, he sees him – Merlin – not a manservant assigned to dote on his every need. The thoughts feel like liquid gold, coating his thoughts in sweetness. It is a luxury he can only hope to indulge every so often, and indulge he does.

He smiles softly to himself as he plods along the forest floor, tracing his fingers along the ferns and tree trunks as he passes by them. It’s a little way for Merlin to say hello, to let the forest know he’s there, and that he moves through it in relationship with the plants around him. The wind flows gently past him, ruffling his hair playfully. He chuckles, smoothing his hair back down on his head. He keeps ahead, looking for the herbs Gaius needs. Allowing his elemental magic to guide him, he follows the breeze that leads him right to the herbs he needs.

It’s easy for Merlin to get lost in his mind in the castle, so he’s grateful for the time he spends in the chilled air, observing as the day turns lighter and lighter. He takes his time gathering up the berries, leaves, and branches Gaius needs, carefully tucking them within the pouch and bundling them in twine. He relishes in the moments where he can practice patience and stillness; he can’t seem to get enough rest like this throughout his days.

Looking up through the maroon, orange, and golden canopy, he sees bright light reflecting off of the top-most branches. Dawn breaks over Camelot, and Merlin smiles to the rising sun. He begins to head back from where he came, plucking a handful of pine sprigs carefully from their parent trees as he goes. He rubs the needles between his hands and inhales deeply, that familiar comfort washing over him. He trots along, placing one sprig in his shirt pocket and resting the remainder in the pouch. He gives the side of the leather parcel a gentle tap, a comforting habit to signal his task complete, and he finds his way back up to the castle gate.

Meandering back up through the castle, he drops the herbs with Gaius, looping the pine-filled pouch onto a hook on the wall. He then jogs along the familiar route to pick up Arthur’s morning preparations. He retrieves Arthur’s clean and fresh laundry from where it’s been drying, and runs through the kitchen to put together his breakfast. He places a few slices of bread, some cured meats, a bundle of grapes, and some fine cheese together on a plate and carries it atop the laundry, taking special care to say a quick prayer that he doesn’t run into anything, or anyone, that could topple the meal on his way to Arthur’s chambers.

He opens the door with his hip, carefully swinging open to reveal the room within. His stomach does a flip at what he sees, startling in surprise. The door swings shut behind him of its own volition as Merlin stands frozen, looking into the room.

The curtains are open, the bed is made, and Arthur sits at his dining table, completely dressed. On the table is a large platter of food, similar to what Merlin holds precariously balanced on his laundry basket. Grapes, apples, cheeses, meats, berries, and even a few freshly baked scones line the silver plate. Merlin looks at the sight, on the border of shock.

Arthur flashes a big toothy grin, clearly and unabashedly proud of himself. “Morning, Merlin,” he says as he stands, gesturing to the spread. “I’ve had the cooks bring up a breakfast platter!” He looks like a puppy, so delighted at his accomplishments. His eyes are bright as he looks to Merlin, awaiting a response.

Merlin remains frozen, perplexed at the sight. “You’re dressed,” is all he manages to say, failing to fit together the pieces of the puzzle in front of him.

Arthur gestures around emphatically, clearly hoping for something more. “Yes, Merlin, I am. Incredible observational skills, as always.” He crosses over to meet Merlin at the door, extending his hands out for the laundry basket. “Give me that, Merlin, you look like you’re about to pass out from the sheer surprise. I am, in fact, capable of dressing myself.” He chuckles, taking the basket and plate out of Merlin’s hands in one easy move.

Merlin’s brow wrinkles in confusion, pointing to the plate Arthur carries in his hand as he sets down the laundry. “But… breakfast… but you already have breakfast?”

“Yes,” Arthur says confidently, plopping the plate Merlin brought down next to the platter. Then he scrunches his face, reconsidering. “Well, no. Well, I haven’t eaten yet.”

“Why not?” Merlin asks, still stuck in place.

Arthur turns back to face Merlin and, seeing the genuine confusion in his face, gestures once again to the dining table, a little more gently. “I… got breakfast…” he hesitates, as though his plan for the morning hadn’t quite made it this far. He averts his gaze, instead choosing to thoroughly look over every detail of the wall behind Merlin’s head. He swallows hard, takes a deep breath, and says quickly, “I got breakfast for us to share.” He pauses again, looking back to Merlin and quickly away. “If you want. Or not.”

Merlin just stands there, planted to the ground, lips parted slightly. He’s completely dumbfounded. “I’ve already eaten,” is the only thing he can think to say. His brain is misfiring in all directions.

Arthur quickly flushes red, scratching the back of his head, embarrassed. He laughs anxiously and says, “You know what, you’re right, that’s a stupid idea, I don’t even know why I thought of it –“

“I’d love to,” Merlin says. The words are out of his mouth before he could hope to stop them, but they’re the truth. A smile takes shape on his face as he looks at Arthur, stomach settling again.

Arthur gazes back, a spark of light in his eyes. “You would?” He asks hopefully.

Merlin nods, unmoving. “Yes.” Warmth spreads from his head to his toes as he watches Arthur’s face grow excited once again.

“Alright, wonderful!” He says, springing in place. He turns to the table, pulling out the chair next to his own. Looking up at Merlin, blue eyes as bright as he’s ever seen, he says, “Come on then, come sit.”

Merlin’s feet move of their own accord over to the table, around to the chair Arthur holds open for him, and he takes a seat. He keeps his eyes trained on Arthur’s as he sits, looking at the face of someone who is clearly very pleased with himself. As Merlin moves to pull the chair inward, Arthur shifts the seat underneath him so that it moves closer to the table. Merlin stifles a smile as heat rushes into his face, chest fluttering. “Thanks, Arthur,” he says, failing to hide the enjoyment in his voice. “That was vey chivalrous.”

He nods in recognition before taking a seat himself. “Well, Merlin,” he says, shaking out a napkin and setting it in his lap, “I am the crowned prince, after all. It is my sworn duty to be… chivalrous.” He looks up at Merlin, and he feels a tug in his stomach.

Merlin clears his throat and looks away, picking up a bundle of purple grapes.

He places them on the plate in front of him, unsure of what to say. He picks one of the plump fruits from the bunch, popping it into his mouth. It bursts with flavor, a sweetness unlike any he’s had. He savors the taste, one after the other, taking his time to enjoy the rich, ripe fruit. “I don’t think I’ve ever tasted anything like this,” he says with wonder. He looks over at Arthur who’s watching him with great admiration.

“No?” he asks simply, rolling a blackberry delicately between his thumb and forefinger. He pops it into his mouth, chewing happily.

“No,” Merlin echoes, easing into the meal. “It’s delicious.” He smiles warmly at Arthur who smiles back, eyes crinkling at the corners.

“I’m glad you like it,” Arthur says, voice low and relaxed. He takes a pitcher from the center of the table and pours a glass of water, first for Merlin, then for himself. He takes a sip, turning back to the meal in front of him.

Merlin fidgets with the stem of the grape bundle, breaking it off and twisting it in his hand. He can’t help but smile, feeling peace, right next to Arthur. It feels so comfortable, so light and easy. He chuckles to himself, hardly believing the moment that’s happening.

“Something funny?” Arthur asks, inquisitive. He takes a bite off of his plate and glances over at Merlin, completely at ease.

“No, not funny, exactly,” Merlin says, fiddling with the grape stem.

“Well what, then?” Arthur asks as he pops a few more berries into his mouth.

Merlin allows a moment to pass where he fidgets around in his seat. He feels heat rise into his face and he’s certain he’s blushing like the sunrise behind him. “If I didn’t know any better,” he starts, “I would say you’re courting me.” He avoids Arthur’s gaze as his heart pounds in his ears, and he takes a drink of water to busy himself.

“Hmm,” Arthur says. “And what makes you think that?” He’s being quite coy now, glancing over at Merlin sideways.

Merlin bobs his head from side to side. “Oh, I dunno. Maybe it’s the way you blushed when you saw me while your father spoke of Lady Arienne’s coming visit.” He chances a glance at Arthur and sees he’s watching him with intensity. “Or maybe,” he says, rolling a grape around on his plate, “It was when you first noticed I was washing your clothes in the scent of pine, and you would take the biggest, happiest breath of the day while getting dressed in the morning.”

Arthur sits forward in his chair, hand resting on the table surface. Merlin glances between his hand and his visage, and he sees Arthur clenching and releasing his jaw. He remains silent, so Merlin continues on. “Actually, maybe,” he says, “it was when you signed your note in the pouch you gifted me with a name I thought you detested.”

At that Arthur raises his eyebrows in intrigue, further leaning forward in his chair, his hand moving towards Merlin. He looks down at the hand, inching closer to him, and decides to take a chance. “No, none of that really convinced me.” He shakes his head, frowning. “No, certainly not.” He brings his hand out of his lap, and takes Arthur’s up in his own.

He meets Arthur’s gaze and raises his hand up off of the table, the back of his hand exposed. He watches as his breath hitches for a moment, eyes locked on his. “It was the way you looked at me,” he says, “When you took my hand, and you kissed it tenderly, and you said my name.”

Merlin brings Arthur’s hand up to his lips, kissing the delicate skin. Arthur’s breath becomes unsteady for a moment as Merlin’s lips send a flutter of pleasure through him. Merlin pulls away, keeping his eyes trained on him all the while. “Arthur,” he says, the name moving through his entire body. It reverberates to his bones, the name bringing its own kind of comfort and strength to his heart.

Arthur just looks on in response, eyes glued to Merlin’s. He’s speechless, flustered, and completely captivated. “Merlin,” is all he manages to say, voice barely above a breath. He smiles, eyes relaxed, drinking his fill of the wise, clumsy, and compassionate man before him.

Merlin returns the smile, setting their joined hands back down on the table. He wordlessly takes Arthur in, seeing not the great man destined to join the land of Albion. He sees the trusting, courageous, and loyal man he can’t help but feel comfort around.

For now, for the both of them, that’s enough. To be two men, sitting side-by-side, holding the other in this small and careful way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, y'all. Here's chapter three! It's pretty slow and indulgent. It's a lot of what I need these days when it seems like all I'm doing in the 'real world' is absorbing all the news that's happening all at once all over the world. Like Merlin, we can feel pulled in multiple directions, and that can be draining. 
> 
> When chaos surrounds us, it's good to step out, get into nature, and let ourselves be held by the world itself. Recharge, find some peace, and, when we're prepared, get back to whatever work we feel called to do.


	4. Burns, Chases, and the Dragon's Wisdom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While heating some water, Merlin stays true to character as an eternal danger to himself and immediately burns his leg.
> 
> Arthur tends to Merlin's wound, and the two share a bit of playfulness. 
> 
> Morgana and Merlin visit Kilgharrah, and it goes just about how one would expect: hopeful that it will be helpful, but ultimately vague and mysterious.

The rest of the week passes, for the most part, as a cloud does – smooth, soft, with no hard edges. Merlin and Arthur walk side by side from meeting to meeting, training to training, meal to meal. It feels natural, like they’ve spent their whole lives walking side by side. They banter, as they’ve always done, pricking at each other in good spirits. It keeps their morale high amidst a day of planning out the details for the feast of Samhain. One the last day of the week – the day Merlin has been dreading – the arrangements for nobles are discussed, and Uther pointedly suggests Lady Arienne be given the chambers across the hall from Arthur. This earns a loud, unapologetic groan from his son.

During one such council meeting, Morgana is in attendance with Gwen, as she is the authority and advisor on decorative fabrics and drapings. At one point, she gives Merlin a coy look that says, _I haven’t forgotten._ It causes Merlin’s stomach to lurch as he remembers the night to come – the meeting with The Great Dragon. He gives a tight smile and a curt nod, preparing for the worst. Gwen looks between the two of them for a brief moment, raising a questioning eyebrow up at Merlin. He just shakes his head slightly to drop the moment, hoping not to draw too much attention. She frowns, shrugs, and turns her attention back to the meeting at hand.

At the end of the day, as Merlin prepares Arthur’s evening bath, his insides are a mess of nerves. He feels a nervous and frenetic energy pulsing through him that causes his hands to shake and his mind to cloud over. He reaches to grab the bucket of water from out of the hearth, vision clouded with dread. He imagines, over and over again, himself and Morgana rounding the corner into The Great Dragon’s cave, only to be incinerated by flame at the first sight of Morgana. His body feels the phantom flames searing his chest, the air around him consumed by burning fire. He shakes his head and scrunches his eyes together, trying to clear the image from his mind. Every time he closes them, though, he just sees flame, hears screams of agony, feels immense regret and loss –

“Merlin?” Arthur’s voice pierces through the nightmare, snapping him to focus.

He starts, jolting into an upright position and spilling boiling hot water down his leg in the process. “Gah!” He winces at the searing pain shooting down his leg, setting down the bucket of steaming hot water.

“ _MER_ lin!” Arthur says in surprise, rushing over to his servant. He crouches down, frantically rolling his pant leg up to try and keep the heat off his skin. “You _bump_ kin, it’s boiling.” He shakes his head, sighing heavily. His eyebrows knit together in deep concern as he examines the skin, looking for any sign of a burn.

Merlin flushes, embarrassed at the mistake. He tries to pull his leg away from Arthur’s grasp, saying, “Sorry, sire, you surely don’t have to do that –“

“Nonsense,” he says, eyes trained on the traces of skin quickly turning pink. He lightly skims the burned area with the tips of his fingers. “It’s a wonder you didn’t spill the bucket straight down your front, with your coordination.” He smiles in good nature, lightly teasing Merlin.

Merlin chuckles, face scrunched up from the stinging pain in his leg. He sucks the breath in through his teeth, focusing on the cooling sensation of the air. “Yes, well, miracles do happen, on occasion.” This earns a laugh from Arthur, and a bit of lightness settles around them.

After a quick overview, Arthur nods in satisfaction. “It’s not a bad burn, but we should still get you a cold rag to ease the pain.” He pats Merlin’s leg with a note of finality, and Merlin lets out a little yelp at the sharp pain on the burn. “Oh!” Arthur exclaims, hand freezing an inch from his leg. “Of course. Sorry. Well – erm,” he clears his throat, coming up to stand. “I’ll see about that rag, there’s got to be one around here somewhere.” He turns around a bit awkwardly, patting his arms against his sides, looking around in a circle for a rag to appear in his hands.

Merlin rolls his eyes. Always a prince. He pulls off his neckerchief and starts walking over to the water pitcher on the nearby dining table. “Here, I can just use this,” he says as he moves to dunk the fabric in the water.

“No no no,” Arthur says as he quickly moves across the room. He snatches the rag out of Merlin’s hand and splashes it into the water before he gets the chance. “You’re injured, Merlin, I can take care of this.”

Merlin scoffs, bemused at the display. “It’s hardly an injury, I’m certain it will heal on its own just fine.”

“Sit,” Arthur commands, placing a hand on his shoulder. “You’ve got a wound, you’ve tended to hundreds of mine. Just let me do this.” He looks firmly at Merlin, steadfast in his mission to complete his task.

Merlin smirks and narrows his eyes, slightly suspicious, but does as he’s told. He slowly sinks into a nearby chair, and Arthur sits next to him, pulling the wounded leg up so his calf rests across his lap. Arthur delicately places the cold, damp fabric on his sorry excuse for a burn, and begins to wrap the kerchief around.

“Your bath must be getting cold,” Merlin says, picking at a stray fabric on his tunic. He’d never admit it to Arthur, but the cooling sensation of the rag does help take away the sting.

Arthur shakes his head, giving a little _tsk_ as he finishes tying a secure knot for the fabric. “Forget the bath,” he says, releasing Merlin’s leg back to the floor, satisfied with his work. “Accidents happen. Plans change. Not a worry about it.” He shrugs nonchalantly, then props his head up on his arm against the table. He’s silent for a bit, drifting off to think of something else. He quietly drums his fingers on the table’s surface, perfectly content to sit in silence.

Merlin, on the other hand, has more important things to do than sit and ponder. Again, the intruding image of the flash of flame crosses through his mind, and he shakes it away. He knows he must keep to the plan, but everything in him is screaming at him to stay far away from The Great Dragon tonight. He sits up a little straighter in his chair to catch Arthur’s attention and says, “Shall I take care of the bath water, sire, or do you still wish to bathe?”

He waves his hand dismissively in the direction of the basin and shakes his head. “Just leave it,” he says, eyes growing ever more vacant as his mind wanders.

Merlin frowns, confused. “You want me to leave your bathwater in the middle of your room, just to sit there cooling overnight?”

Arthur doesn’t answer right away. He pouts slightly, then shrugs. “That’s not really what matters to me right now.” He glances over at Merlin out of the corner of his eye, and then goes back to staring at nothing.

Now Merlin reels his head back slightly, not following whatsoever. “Sire?”

“What’s on your mind tonight, Merlin?” Arthur asks, turning fully to face him. He seems investigative, searching his eyes for a hint of truth.

Merlin’s heart starts to take off, and he presses his palms into his thighs to keep them steady. He blows a raspberry, trying to convey nonchalance. “Nothing, sire,” he says, voice scooping in unconvincing and exaggerated ways. He slaps on a smile, widening his eyes to make them seem emptier than they are. “What would make you think that?” He chuckles and looks away before Arthur can find his highly-illegal-secret-magic-dragon-in-a-dungeon quest somewhere in his eyes.

Arthurs eyes narrow, his hunter-sharp gaze seeking out the depths Merlin hopes to keep hidden. “Because,” he says, “I’d been talking your ear off about Lady Arienne earlier – which you can never seem to resist to comment on - ”

“Now hang on,” Merlin says defensively, “I wouldn’t say –“

“ – whenever you get the chance,” Arthur continues without stopping, “and you didn’t utter a single. Word.” He punches his index finger into the table’s surface for emphasis on the last two words. Silence hangs between them for a moment as Merlin continues to avert his gaze. “Now, the foolhardy Merlin I know would never hesitate to join in on a bit of gossip about an incoming noble family. So I ask again: What’s on your mind?” He moves his head into Merlin’s field of vision, forcing him to meet his gaze.

Merlin reluctantly does so, clenching his jaw. Arthur and himself share so much, but the largest, most important part of who he is – a sorcerer – and what he does – go into places with the king’s ward where he definitely shouldn’t – he knows he can’t share. For know, instead of risking revealing his secret, he decides to try his hand at a bit of play. “It’s not for me to say,” is all he says. He draws his shoulders inward, brooding ever-so-slightly.

Arthur frowns, puzzled. “If not for you, then who?”

Merlin sighs again, eyes flitting about the room, feigning great concentration. He leans forward in his chair, an air of dramatic intensity about him. “Some things are bigger than you or me, Arthur.”

He nods, sufficiently intrigued by the vague nature of his response. He, too, leans forward, crystal blue eyes brought clearer into focus. “Yes, Merlin. Yes, I suppose they are.” His eyes bounce back and forth between Merlin’s own, his lips, and back again.

Merlin’s breath grows quiet, falling into the sweet peace of Arthur. He soaks in his visage, how intense and how curious it is tonight. He enjoys the sensation of being so close to Arthur, feeling the air ebb and flow between them. In less than a minute, he has Arthur wrapped right around his finger. He knows they’re both aware of how easy it would be to close the gap, to sink all the way into pleasure. But as Arthur moves forward, eyelids closing, he pulls away, smirking all the while. The farther Arthur progresses, the more Merlin backs away, leaving him leaning farther and farther forward into open air. After a moment, Arthur catches on, and his parted lips open into a scoff. Merlin snickers, thoroughly pleased with himself for toying with his prince in the little ways he knows how.

Arthur grins, thoroughly frustrated, and smacks Merlin playfully on the arm. “I could have you thrown in the stocks for that, you half-wit.”

Merlin laughs, standing to move away from Arthur’s halfhearted combat. “Oh come on, where’s the fun without a little chase?” He’s enjoying this a little too thoroughly, and gestures for Arthur to get up, have a bit of fun.

“Oh, I’ll give you a chase,” Arthur says with feigned menace, rising from his chair to lunge at Merlin. He’s too quick, though, and lets out a bit of a squeal as he flits about the room, evading Arthur’s advances.

The two end up chasing each other around, laughing, and crashing into just about every piece of furniture in Arthur’s room before exhausting themselves. The two finish getting ready for the evening in high spirits. The worry about the night ahead remains, but Merlin feels a lightness in his heart that he gladly welcomes to push out some of the dark and doubt. The evening ends with a kiss on the hand, surprising and gentle as ever. Merlin bows to his friend, backs out of the room, and heads to his impending doom down far beneath his safe haven with Arthur.

***

“What took you so long?” Morgana snaps as Merlin descends the wide stone steps into the catacomb’s entrance. She’s pacing back and forth, torch lit in her hand, and thoroughly irritated.

“Sorry,” he says hurriedly. He grabs a torch of his own from its hold in the wall and easily mutters an incantation sparking it to life. “I was – well – there was a problem with Arthur’s bath –“

“I’m going to stop you right there,” she interjects, eyes glistening in the dim firelight, “as I could not possibly want to know the details of what you and Arthur do in your _private_ time.” She wrinkles her nose as she adjusts the hair falling down her shoulder. “You’ve left me waiting long enough – ” she steps aside, gesturing to the cascading stairs that descend deep into darkness, “ – or do you intend to spend the duration of the evening discussing the details of your dear Arthur’s _bath?”_

There’s venom in her words, and they cut right to Merlin’s heart. He takes a step back from the effect of her malice, looking at her with distrust. There’s something that’s shifted, like her very being is slightly off kilter. Her eyes watch him like a wolf circling its prey, and Merlin cocks his head slightly. “I had no idea your feelings about Arthur’s evening habits were so strong,” he says sternly, regaining his strength. He smiles, teeth flashing in the firelight. “I never knew you cared.”

She scoffs, scowling in his direction. She grabs Merlin’s arm, shoving him towards the staircase. “Get moving,” she says, eyes shadows in the flickering flames.

He stumbles forward, catching himself on the wall to avoid tumbling down the staircase. The impact knocks some breath out of him, and he breathes heavily against the stone. “You would do well to use caution, Morgana,” he says solemnly. He rights himself and heads down the staircase, pointedly not turning around to see if she follows. “We are headed into a dragon’s lair, after all.”

“A prison cell, you mean,” she retorts. She spits out the words with disgust. “Uther locked him up in here like a common criminal.” Her voice is electric, volatile, and heavy with anger, echoing around the stone stairway.

Silence passes between them for a while as they head further underground. The static energy permeating off of Morgana persists, and Merlin stays quiet, seeking not to provoke her any further. Step by step, they descend, and the deeper they go, the larger the lump in Merlin’s throat becomes.

“Morgana,” he says softly, “I know it can feel… good… to take out your aggression on me, but I’m not your enemy, and you know that.” He pauses, and she says nothing. “If your problem is with Uther, throwing me into walls will do nothing to quell your anger.” He keeps his eyes locked ahead, and his words hang in the air.

She doesn’t respond, but her crackling magic fades away.

Eventually, the staircase bottoms out into a compacted dirt path, stone arching above them. The corridor makes a sharp left, and from beyond, there’s the faint yellow glow of firelight. Merlin swallows hard, taking a deep breath.

_It’s now or never._

“Come on,” he says, nodding in the direction of the light. He looks back, and he sees Morgana’s eyes filled with an insatiable curiosity. She follows behind him, eager to see what awaits. He leads them down the last few steps and hesitates before rounding the corner, heart pounding, blood pulsing through his ears. He stops short, pressing himself up against the cold stone wall. The same vision, the same flame, the same screams, enter into his mind, and it overtakes his vision. He squeezes his eyes shut, trying to shake it away, but it remains.

“Merlin?” Morgana asks, placing a hand on his shoulder. She shakes him slightly, and he opens his eyes. “Merlin, we’re right here.” She gestures just beyond, the firelight dancing across the edge of her face.

“I have a bad sense about this, Morgana,” he says, shaking his head. “We should go back.” He moves to leave and head up the stairs, only to be held in place by Morgana.

“No,” she says, earnestly and passionately. “No. You’ve brought us all the way here. You’ve risked much for the both of us tonight, and to be frank, if we were to get caught having returned and I had not met the dragon, I would never forgive you.” She’s completely serious, but there is a hint of playful nature to the words she says.

Her sentiments land somewhere in Merlin’s being, grounding him. He nods, taking a few deep breaths. “I’ve seen this dragon so many times, this occasion isn’t so different.” He nods, convincing himself it is truth, and Morgana nods along in support.

“Exactly,” she says emphatically. “Now introduce me to your ancient fire-breathing mentor.” She pulls him off the wall and, much more gently than earlier, shoves him around the corner.

Merlin looks around, hesitantly walking forward, suddenly on edge. The Great Dragon is nowhere to be found. The chamber is lit, as it always is, but he cannot be seen from where they are. The hanging rock formations from the peak of the cave to the cavern floor show no sign of the dragon. Merlin steps out onto the edge, Morgana by his side. “Hello?” he calls, his voice echoing off of the rocky interior. The earthen chamber, from where they stand, appears entirely empty.

Suddenly, the sound around them reverberates. It’s as though a hundred voices all start at once, calling out a distorted message that permeates into Merlin’s very skull.

_“WHY HAVE YOU BROUGHT THE WITCH?”_

Beside Merlin, Morgana gasps, drops her torch, and clutches her head in her hands. She leans forward, shuddering. “What was that?” she asks, breathless. She looks around frantically, fear in her eyes.

Merlin places a hand on her back, leaning forward to say in her ear, “It’s alright,” he says, “He’s just trying to intimidate you.”

“Well he’s doing a fairly decent job at the moment!” She rises to stand, hands still clutched to the side of her head.

The sound begins to reverberate again, and through their minds, they hear,

_“THE WITCH HAS NO PLACE IN MY PRESENCE.”_

Morgana yelps, but stays upright, breathing quickly but evenly. A sliver of strength appears through the fear, and she says, “I am the Lady Morgana, not a simple _witch_.” She says it with a surprising fervor, her words echoing out into the earthen chamber.

Merlin looks through the rocks for a glimpse of the dragon, but finds none. “I’ve come to introduce you! She needs your guidance – knowledge I cannot provide.” He looks between her and the emptiness in front of them, frustrated and afraid.

Once again, the sound rises until,

_“AWAY WITH THE WITCH.”_

Morgana flinches, but she stands her ground. She puffs out her chest, fists clenched, and says, “You will _not_ address the king’s ward as such.” She slices the title through the air, hoping it will find some purchase. For a moment after she speaks, there is complete silence, save the soft crackle of the torch in Merlin’s hand.

Then, from deep within the cave, a rumble begins. It sounds like earth, and wind, and fire, and water, all rushing together. Laughter emerges from the sound, quaking and roiling, echoing off of the chamber walls.

_Whoosh._

A great upheaval of air rises up from over the ledge, and a massive golden form flies out from an unseen pit. The sickening laughter reverberates into their beings, growing louder and louder. The beating of wings, fifty feet wide, send wave after wave of wind pushing against the two of them, completely exposed. The creature soars, carrying with him the clanging of iron against iron as a chain rattles around his leg. The laughter reaches a crescendo, and The Great Dragon lands with a great _thud_ onto his perch, twenty or so feet away from where the two of them stand.

His head is thrown back, overtaken with a dark laughter, wings outstretched. Merlin and Morgana clasp hands, standing resolute against this magical being. Her palms are slick against his, and he can hardly blame her. He feels his stomach bottom out at the sight of this ancient creature’s full stature, but he remains steadfast.

Finally, the dragon’s laughter fades away, and he sighs, craning his head toward the two fragile humans. “Do you really think,” the dragon says, voice rough, malicious, and calculated, “that the king’s ward would have any place in my presence?”

Morgana sets her jaw, sternly gazing upon the dragon. She’s taken on her full persona, one that would make any man cower in its wake. “Do not think you know my loyalties based on title alone,” she says. “I think you will find our intentions for the kingdom of Camelot are not as different as you think.”

Merlin snaps to look at Morgana and sees her eyes are dark, fierce, and powerful. Electric magic crackles around her, making the ends of her hair stand on end.

“Ahh, yes,” the dragon says, practically hissing out the words. Somehow, when he speaks, sound becomes distorted, so it sounds like he speaks forever. “That, young witch, is precisely what worries me.”

Merlin’s chest tightens as he watches Morgana’s expression warp into something he’s never truly seen from her before. Something undefinable, something dangerous. His heart fills with worry at the sight, and he frantically thinks about what her implications could mean.

The Great Dragon turns his focus on to Merlin, pivoting his head. His golden eyes pierce through the center of his being. He feels an uncomfortable warmth take root there, like The Great Dragon is looking into somewhere that he shouldn’t, deep in his heart. With a grand reverberation, he says, “I am afraid you miscalculated, young warlock.” Merlin’s insides squirm under his gaze, and the dragon continues. “The witch does not seek the fair and just future we desire.”

“Yes she does,” Merlin says defensively. His voice is far more certain than he feels, but he plows ahead. The Great Dragon just blinks down at him, watching his every move. “She wants the very same thing: a world where magic can be free, do you not?” He looks over to Morgana whose eyes are still glued to the colossal dragon’s form.

She nods with certainty. “I do. I desire nothing more than the freedom and justice for those with magic.”

The sound around them rings for a seeming eternity within a moment, and the dragon’s words form out of the noise, saying, “That might be so.” He then lunges forward, bring his muzzle uncomfortably close to the two of them. “But at what cost?” His voice is a sick whisper, his hot breath spattering them both in slick moisture.

Morgana remains silent, staring stoically up into the eyes of The Great Dragon.

After a moment, Merlin pipes up, pleading. “She’s our kin,” he says. “It is our duty to look out for one another.”

Another pause goes by. The dragon’s giant eyes blink slowly, the pupils pivoting to Merlin.

“And who,” the dragon says, “would be a fool enough to plant a naïve idea such as that in your head?”

“You would.” Merlin says it with a note of finality, taking back control of the discomforting pressure within him.

The dragon groans, a great bellowing moan, throwing his head back and forth in a full and dramatic anguish. He lets out a heaving sigh, looking back down at the two young sorcerers with tired eyes. “There is only so much I can impart on you both,” he says, “when you choose to defy your destinies.” He looks between them, seeing straight through their core.

“Destiny?” Morgana asks, snapping the word sharp and crisp. She looks to Merlin, confusion written on her face. “Merlin spoke not of destiny.”

The dragon chuckles morosely. His gaze settles on Morgana, perceptive as ever. “As I’m sure he didn’t,” he says, “for your fearsome and destructive future, Lady Morgana, has been written since the dawn of time. Just as your friend, the young warlock, has a path of his own he must follow. To seek the path rejecting your destiny, Morgana, means to alter the course of the time to come: the time,” he pauses, leaning his head closer, “of Albion.” 

Morgana shudders at his words, her hand quivering in Merlin’s grasp. He gives her hand a firm squeeze, a show of reassurance. She returns the gesture, though not with such certainty. “If you are to rely on each other,” the dragon says, voice rather calm in comparison to their arrival, “you must do so fully and wholeheartedly.” He looks carefully at Merlin, examining him up and down. “Merlin, you are light.” He scans over Morgana, head still high. “Morgana, you are dark.” He pulls away, righting himself on his perch. “In your opposition, the balance of the cosmos resides. Each of you seek your own paths to your destiny, and today, you forge its beginning. The tyranny of Uther Pendragon will only come to pass through the push and pull of your forces, and you must learn how to use the ebb and flow of your bond.” He pauses, extending his wings out to their full breadth. “The future of Camelot, and the world you will create, rests in both of your hands now, young sorcerers.” The, with a rumbling _whoosh_ , the dragon takes off once again, soaring away.

“But how do we do that?” Morgana cries over the deafening flapping of leathery wings.

“Don’t bother!” Merlin shouts into the noise, tugging her back the way they came. “He’s always enjoyed a dramatic exit!”

As the thunderous sounds of the dragon’s flight fade into the distance, Merlin and Morgana make the long climb back up the stairs. At the end of the night, the two find themselves more uncertain and puzzled than they were before. They head to their respective chambers, spending the sleepless night lost in thought about their entwined lives: their destinies, their doom, and the kingdom they seek to create.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's a wrap on chapter 4, folks!
> 
> And can I just say: Kilgharrah is the CEO of Vague Yet Passionate Advice. Underneath the intimidating facade, he's rooting for Morgana just as much as he is Merlin. They all want the same things at the end of the day, after all: freedom of magic!
> 
> Anyway, that's that. I hope wherever you are, whenever you read this, you're safe, and you're able to find some peace in your day. Be well!


	5. Visitors, Wine, and A Dangerous Dance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A few new faces come to Camelot on the eve of Samhain. 
> 
> Arthur and Merlin come to terms with a potential future. 
> 
> Sir Burchard goes a bit too heavy on the wine, and a celebratory dinner goes awry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heads up - this chapter has some not-so-comfy power-based verbal and physical violence. If you are sensitive to discussions around misogyny and/or blood, proceed with caution.

A few weeks pass by, and the season grows colder. The soft golden leaves from the surrounding forests have all gone, leaving a sea of barren branches mixed with pricks of evergreens. The celebration of Samhain approaches at the end of the week, and preparations are heavily underway throughout the castle. Morgana flits through the castle, Gwen trailing closely behind, the two making decisions about proper decorations, drapes, tapestries, and fabrics for the somber and reflective holiday. While preparations are at their height, the two sorcerers are unable to meet privately, since far too many eyes are on Morgana at any given time. Every so often, the one catches the other’s eye, offering a bit of encouragement from afar.

Merlin, meanwhile, remains at Arthur’s side from before dawn until after dark, accompanying him to celebrations, ceremonies, and festivals throughout the week. When they get the chance, the two enjoy a restful evening in Arthur’s chambers, letting go of the courtly responsibilities to sit, drink tea, or see just how much mischief they can cause by swiping expensive wines from the cellar. As the feast draws closer, though, Arthur grows more tense and reserved. He dreads the arrival of Lady Arienne, openly cringing when his father refuses to drop the subject. Uther has, at this point, made it very clear that in order for an alliance to be cemented with her family, the House of Doremus, Arthur is expected to offer his hand in marriage. No matter how much Arthur rejects the idea, and no matter how Merlin may feel about their potential engagement, her arrival day comes all the same.

The royal court stands in the courtyard, lining the stairs up to the castle’s central entrance. The knights, guards, and the nobles of the castle stand at attention, dressed head to toe in the royal red and gold of Camelot. Gaius stands beside Merlin, who looks on ahead to Arthur and Uther, both adorned in their royal crowns and ceremonial armor. Arthur fidgets at Uther’s side, ready for this all to be over and done with as soon as possible.

Then, the faint _clip-clop_ of horseshoes on stone begin to ring throughout the courtyard. Arthur snaps to attention, painting on his charming smile. He straightens out his chest, and Uther quickly adjusts his crown before the Doremus carriage rounds the corner.

Into the courtyard rides the cavalcade, led by two soldiers carrying the house flag: purple and gold, with a silhouette of an owl embroidered into the center of the crest. The carriage is pulled by four large stallions, manes swishing in the wind as they trot towards the Camelot welcoming party. The horses swing around so that the door to the carriage faces the group before coming to a halt. Arthur takes a steeling breath, smiling, and approaches the carriage door with confidence and ease. He opens the door with one hand, holding out his other to receive Lady Arienne.

A black gloved hand emerges from the carriage, taking Arthur’s own. A tall, young, and elegant woman, dressed in a dark red gown beneath a velvet black traveling cloak, descends from the carriage. Her soft, beautiful facial features are arranged into a pleasant smile as she surveys the crowd greeting her. Cheeks red from the cold, hair cast down over her shoulders, she looks to Arthur, smiling brightly.

He nods, performing his charismatic character as fully as ever. They mutter something back and forth that Merlin can’t quite hear, and Lady Arienne chuckles in response. They both turn to face the gathering, and Arthur says, “Allow me the honor of warmly welcoming Lady Arienne of the Doremus House.”

A peal of applause moves through the crowd, and Merlin joins in, smiling pleasantly as ever. He feels a strange pang of jealousy at seeing the Lady’s arm held in Arthur’s own and quickly squashes the feeling down. Merlin then watches as two others exit out of the carriage, both wearing black traveling cloaks. One is another woman, around the same age as Lady Arienne, but dressed in a much simpler grey gown underneath her cloak. Her brown hair is pinned up into a casual yet neat bun at the nape of her neck, and she stands behind the Lady, watching her carefully.

The other is a much older man, face cut with wrinkles and scars. His plump belly fills out his deep blue tunic underneath, the royal crest embroidered onto its front. He smiles, cackling loudly, as he approaches Uther with his arms extended wide. “King Uther, old friend!” He calls, pulling the king into an embrace as though he’s known him all his life.

For the first time in Merlin’s life, he hears Uther laughing like a carefree boy. Uther claps this man on the back, saying, “Burchard, it is an honor to welcome you to my kingdom.” Uther pulls away from the embrace, placing a firm hand on Burchard’s shoulder. He turns to face the crowd, smiling, and says, “May the festivities commence!”

Another great round of applause rings through the crowd as the guests of honor are led into the castle. Merlin falls into step just behind Arthur as he and Arienne exchange pleasantries. He casts a glance at Arienne’s servant and says, “Hello,” offering her a smile.

She looks to him in surprise, and then checks behind her shoulder to see if he might be speaking to anyone else. When there is nobody there, she looks back to him, a sheepish grin on her face. “Hi,” she says quietly, turning her focus back to Arienne.

A moment of silence goes by before Merlin can no longer help himself. “I’m Merlin,” he says to her, eager to make a new friend.

She nods her head in acknowledgement, looking fleetingly over at him for a moment. She continues on in silence, though, keeping her focus forward as she walks.

“What’s your name?” Merlin asks, prompting her along.

Her smile widens a bit at his giddy demeanor. “Lavandin,” she says, voice only barely audible above Arthur’s loud prattling on.

Merlin gives a similar nod to her, holding contact with her hazel-brown eyes. “Well, Lavandin,” he says, chipper as ever, “welcome to Camelot.”

“Thank you,” she says. “You’re very kind.”

“Of course,” he replies, gesturing around to the surrounding hallway. “I hope everyone who enters this castle feels at least a moment of welcome.” At that her smile grows, eyes wrinkling at the corners. He continues on, saying, “If you or the Lady Arienne are in need of anything – food, water, laundry, a tour around the city – don’t hesitate to call for me. That is, if I’m not – well – right here.” He chuckles, nodding in the direction of Arthur who is laughing entirely too loud for an interior space.

Lavandin giggles, hiding her mouth behind her hand. Once she regains composure, she says, “Thank you once again, Merlin. I’m certain if we are in need of anything, you won’t be too hard to find.”

Merlin shrugs, then says wryly, “And if all else fails, just have Prince Arthur stampede around the castle shouting after me. That always does the trick.” He chuckles at his own jab at Arthur, and Lavandin joins him softly.

The two settle into silence as the two royals bustle on ahead of them, and they eventually arrive at the door to their guest chambers. Merlin opens the door for them, and they all step inside, taking in the space. It’s nothing too lavish, to Camelot’s standards, yet still one of the finest rooms Merlin has ever seen. The four poster bed is draped with deep burgundy fabric canopy that matches the bedding and pillows, and a small twin bed for servants sits in a corner of the room. All of the furniture – bed, dresser, dining table, and wardrobe – are dark polished cedar wood that even shines in the light of the cloudy day. Arienne sweeps around the room, running her hands along the bed cover, and Lavandin stands silently to the side next to Merlin.

“I hope these accommodations will prove to be your liking,” Arthur says, voice grand and presentational. “It is my greatest wish that you will want for nothing during your stay here for Samhain.”

Arienne smiles, full of grace, over to him. “I am certain that Lavandin and I will be most comfortable here. Thank you for your hospitality, sire.” She curtsies deeply, and Arthur returns her with a steep bow.

Arthur breathes a sigh of relief, most of the formality over and done with. He motions for Merlin to join him at his side, and he moves with haste across the room to meet with Arthur. “Someone should be bringing up your luggage shortly, my Lady. In the meantime, feel free to make yourself as comfortable as you wish.” He turns his gaze to Merlin, clapping him on the shoulder. “My faithful and trustworthy servant, Merlin, will be available to you should you need anything at all.” Merlin looks over to Arthur and sees the prince beaming bright. He smiles in return, and bows to the two women.

Arienne curtsies, looking on Merlin with peaceful eyes. “Thank you in advance, Merlin, for what I know will be a comfortable stay here within these walls.”

Merlin just nods, smiling, juggling a mix between delight and frustration that Arienne has made such a pleasant first impression in such a short amount of time.

Arthur gives Merlin’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze, then brings his hands to fold together at his front. “We shall leave you both to get settled, then, my Lady.” With a bow, he turns to leave, Merlin following closely after.

As the door closes behind them, Arthur lets out a heavy sigh, leaning up against the wall. “This is exhausting already,” he mutters, shoving himself off the wall to make his way to his own chambers. Just a short walk down the hall, Arthur huffs all the way, feet clomping along. Merlin opens the door for him, and he shuffles into the room. Arthur launches himself through the air, flopping down on his bed in his full armor, groaning. “Why does she have to be so… _elegant?_ ” He spits out the word like its an insult, covering his face in his hands.

Merlin moves over to Arthur, taking hold of the crown that’s fallen onto the bed cover. “Problem?” he asks, turning the golden circlet in his hands.

“No,” Arthur says, frustrated. “That’s the issue, isn’t it? There’s absolutely no problem with Lady Arienne.” He sits up, unclipping his royal cape to toss it aside.

Merlin frowns while a small sliver of happiness grows in his chest. “I don’t understand, Arthur, I thought you would see this as… I dunno… good?”

Arthur wipes his hands down his face, stretching his skin into a distorted frown. He looks up at Merlin, eyes lost. “Do you think it’s good?” He’s pleading for an answer, but Merlin just looks down at him, puzzled. A moment passes of silence, of pain, between them. Arthur continues, “Do you think it’s good that there is absolutely nothing coming in between Lady Arienne and I’s inevitable marriage?”

Merlin feels a sensation growing inside him: a feeling made up of worry, hope, and a deep, deep longing. He sets the crown aside and kneels down so that his head comes level with Arthur’s. He takes his hands in his own, squeezing tightly. “No,” he says quietly, looking over the conflicted blue eyes of Arthur.

He looks back, eyes tightening. He swallows hard, closing his eyes. Leaning his head forward, Arthur brings his forehead to rest against Merlin’s. He lets out a deep breath, grasping Merlin’s hands tightly. “No,” he agrees, “I don’t think so either.”

Merlin closes his eyes, taking in all that he can with Arthur. He’s been a fool and he knows it, to think any other outcome than an allied marriage was possible with the crowned prince. His gut flips, over and over again, melancholy over the inevitable settling between the two of them. They sit there in silence for quite some time – so long that Merlin’s knees start to ache against the cold stone floor. He groans against the floor, pulling away from the tender moment.

Arthur chuckles as he releases his hands. “Still haven’t learned to walk on your knees, eh?” He stands, extending a hand down to Merlin.

He takes it gladly, pulling himself up to a standing position. He stands close to Arthur, their hands clasped in between their chests. Smirking at Arthur’s comment, he releases his hand from their grasp, and begins unfastening his dressing cape. “One day, Arthur,” he says, bringing the deep red fabric to fold in his hands, “if things were different, maybe you would find out for certain.”

Arthur blushes at the implication, rolling his eyes and blowing a raspberry to hide his embarrassment. “I – well – _Mer_ lin –“ he fumbles, averting his gaze to unhook his bracers. He hides a smile as Merlin helps him disassemble his ceremonial armor, peeling away the hard exterior into more comfortable autumnal wear. Together, the two of them prepare for the coming day’s events, steeling themselves against what’s to come.

Evening arrives as the light leaves the sky. Camelot settles into a comfortable, candlelit darkness. The castle bustles with life as servants cart food, wine, and decorations about for the Samhain ceremony tomorrow. Meanwhile, the Pendragons, Morgana, their servants, and the Doremus House gather for a welcoming dinner. Happy chatter bounces throughout the room while Gwen, Merlin, and Lavandin circle about refilling drinks and plates.

Sir Burchard, plump as ever, bellows over all other voices in the room. He’s a man, Merlin quickly learns, that is not afraid to have his opinions known. After his fourth glass of wine, he shouts loudly to Uther, “Your boy must be a fine gentleman, remaining a bachelor all these years when surrounded by such fine maidservants!” He hiccups, lolling back in his seat.

“Father,” Lady Arienne protests from her position next to Arthur.

Burchard waves his hand dismissively in her direction. “Now don’t get me wrong,” he blusters, “My daughter is the finest our land has to offer, but the _temptations_ you have on your staff, Uther!” His cackling laughter rings out at Uther’s side, growing slowly more overbearing as the wine works its magic. “It’s remarkable!”

Gwen and Lavandin visibly shrink at his words, hugging their shoulders into their sides. The two of them scurry back into the kitchen, seeking some business to attend to elsewhere. Seeing this, Morgana bristles, her dagger-like eyes piercing holes through Burchard’s skull. Lady Arienne seems rather embarrassed, whispering something into Arthur’s ear that makes him choke on his drink. This earns an even greater laugh, with Uther chiming in in good spirits.

“Ahh, better out than in, that’s what they say, eh, boy?” Burchard slaps Arthur firmly on the back as he coughs, eyes watering.

Arthur attempts a smile through his coughing fit, punching a fist into his own chest in the hopes of clearing out the liquid from his lungs. “Indeed, sire – ” he coughs, “indeed.”

Merlin runs over with a fresh napkin, anger bubbling up inside him, handing it over to the prince. “Are you alright, sire?”

Arthur takes the napkin, wiping his face as he catches his breath. “Yes, thank you, Merlin.” He clears his throat, adjusting the neckline of his shirt. “Fetch me a glass of water, would you?”

Merlin nods quickly and takes off for the kitchens, but not before Lady Arienne catches his sleeve. “And Merlin?” she inquires, gesturing for him to lean in. He obliges, and she whispers, “Perhaps some water for my dear father would be helpful to us all?”

Merlin smiles, hiding it quickly from any onlookers. “Of course, my Lady.”

“Arienne, please, call me Arienne,” she says earnestly. She releases his arm, turning back to Arthur.

Merlin nods, a touch of surprise on his face. “Certainly, Arienne.” He bows, heading off to the kitchens while the rich and royal continue to dine.

Head steaming, he walks through the swinging doors into the kitchen to find the usual chaos of sights and smells, almost bumping straight into Gwen and Lavandin. They’re huddled together just beyond the door’s threshold, looking sorely displeased. Lavandin fidgets with a small piece of maroon fabric wrapped around her wrist, and Gwen has a hand placed on her shoulder as Merlin bursts through the door.

“Can you believe his behavior?” Merlin says straight at the two of them, fuming. “To be so blatantly vile in front of us all?” He bustles about, clattering silver goblets and pitchers around onto a tray. “Talking about you like you’re objects on display, it’s despicable,” he mutters, aiming water into the cups but splashing it all about. When he turns back to face the two of them, they’re looking at him with surprise, hope, even.

“You… you don’t think it’s funny?” Gwen says, eyebrows raised.

Merlin laughs darkly, throwing his head back. “No!” He says emphatically. “Of course not! It’s disgusting, actually. I thought Morgana was about to burn his hair off with simply a glance – ” he stops short, hearing how his words sound and seeing the look of warning on Gwen’s face. “ – well – that is – _metaphorically,_ of course,” he starts chuckling in a panic, “she could never – obviously – ”

“Thank you, Merlin,” Lavandin pipes up, saving him from himself. She smiles gently through her lingering dismay of the moment. She twirls a strand of the knotted fabric in her hand, soothing herself. “I should’ve warned you that Burchard can be rather… well… you saw it for yourself out there, didn’t you?”

He laughs once and shrugs it off, noting how quickly and graciously Lavandin moved away from his own self-implicating blabber. “Yes, well, I don’t think I’ve got quite enough of it myself.” He puffs up his chest, channeling his inner fire, and nods to the swinging doors. “I’ll be out there, enjoying the show whenever you both feel like getting back in the ring.”

“Be cautious, Merlin,” Gwen says, concern in her face. “From what I’ve seen – ” she casts a quick glance at Lavandin, “ – and from what I’ve heard, he’s more than just a loudmouth.”

He glances between the two of them. They seem to have the utmost trust in each other, even after hardly having met. He senses there is something more, right behind their words, but he can’t quite make it out. He just nods, placing his trust in them as well, and heads back out into the meal.

Burchard sees him come through the door and sends up a great cheer, sloshing the beverage in his hand up and about. “Ahh, here he is! The man of the hour, here to revive us all!” He applauds, gesturing for others to join in. Uther claps with fervor, a sloppy smile across his purple-stained mouth. Others join in halfheartedly while Merlin just stands there awkwardly, all eyes on him.

He grins, shoving aside his discomfort, and strides over to Arthur and Burchard. He sets down the two glasses of water and begins to back away without a word. Before he can get far, though, Burchard wraps a meaty hand around his lanky forearm, holding tight.

“Wassthis?” Burchard says, examining the goblet’s contents. He squints in close, sniffing the glass, skeptical.

Merlin’s heart starts beating quick, anxiety and anger bubbling up within him. “Water, sire,” he says firmly. He tries to back away, but Burchard just pulls him back, tightening his grip.

“Water?” he cries. He looks back to Merlin with unfocused eyes, then down to the cup, then back again. “You’ve brought me _water?_ ” He lets out a great crescendo of a laugh, sweet and sour breath spewing into Merlin’s face. He looks back to Uther and elbows him in the side, Uther laughing all the while. When he turns back, Burchard has tears in his eyes from the pain of laughing, and he swipes them away with the back of his hand. “No no no, clearly you’re mistaken, fool, you’re to keep the festivities lively!” He pounds the table with his fist, bringing Merlin’s face close to his. Merlin holds his breath, blood pounding through his hands, and he struggles to mold his face into one of a servant’s neutrality. Berchard sneers, looking Merlin up and down. “I’m sure we’ll have enough fun with you to make up for your sorry mistake.” He spits the consonants on Merlin’s face. Merlin then flinches away from the hot spray, seething so much, he can almost see steam rising from his skin.

Burchard throws him back, and he stumbles backward. He tries to catch his balance, but he fumbles straight into one of the support columns in the dining room. He grunts, holding to the beam for support, white hot anger spreading through him. Fire rises up inside him, imagined flames curling all around his vision as he rights himself. All he sees is Burchard, who is now standing, spinning in a circle, arms outstretched.

“Ladies and gentleman, would you like to see some entertainment from this fool tonight?” Burchard says, gesturing with clumsy hands to Merlin.

“Surely you’ve had enough entertainment for one night,” Morgana says, words slicing through the air. She looks between Burchard and Merlin, poison in her eyes.

“Hush, girl,” Uther yells, silencing his ward. “Let Sir Burchard have his fun.” He gazes on, giddy with delight.

“Father,” Arienne says kindly, “perhaps we should call it an evening.” She’s smiling elegantly as ever, but there’s an edge to her voice. She looks around the room for Lavandin, and when she does not see her, she instinctively touches a thin piece of cloth wrapped around her wrist.

“Silence!” Burchard cries, towering over his daughter.

She shrinks back, nostrils flaring, and Arthur instinctively puts a hand on her shoulder. He looks to Merlin, calculating, trying to plan ahead for what might happen next.

Burchard turns his attention back to Merlin, a smile of sick pleasure spreading across his face. He licks his lips, hungry for what, Merlin knows not. “Do you enjoy dancing, boy?” He wobbles from side to side, trying to stay on his two feet.

Merlin’s tunnel vision grows narrower, the flames of anger creeping deeper into his mind. “No, sire,” he says. His voice surprises him; it’s iron, protecting him, delivering him power where he feels none. 

“Father, don’t – ” Arienne starts, standing.

“I said _quiet!_ ” Burchard hisses in her direction, and she sits abruptly, worry spreading on her face.

Merlin feels his fists clench at his sides, and his vision begins to tremble. The world around Burchard grows fuzzy – this giant showboat with something to prove is all he sees. His vision goes red. He imagines what it would be like, to set just the tiniest spark on that fine blue robe.

“It’s a shame, really,” Burchard says. He draws a long, coiled weapon that has been hidden on his belt: a whip. He sneers, cocking his head to the side, breathing heavy. “Let’s jig, shall we?”

Before Merlin even has a chance to react, he hears a sharp _CRACK!_ In the air. A stinging sensation surges in his leg unlike any he’s felt before. He cries out, flinching away from the pain.

“Merlin!” Morgana cries out, standing from her seat. Her face hardens in anger, turning her focus to Uther. “Your Majesty,” she pleads, “you must put an end to this.”

Uther just looks at Merlin, laughing all the while.

“Dance for me, boy!”

_CRACK!_

A sting shoots across Merlin’s shoulder, and he grimaces against the pain. He covers his shoulder with the opposite hand, hoping to protect himself from the onslaught. He’s powerless in front of these royal forces, and he just breathes heavily, trying to push away the pain.

“That’s enough, Sir Burchard,” Arthur says. His voice is stern, direct, and unwavering as he stands from his position at the table.

“I don’t take orders from you, _prince._ ” Burchard spits in his face, shoving him away.

At that, exclamations of shock rise up all through the room. All of the guards standing around the perimeter draw their swords defensively. Arthur catches his balance, drawing a sword of his own, pointing it at Burchard’s chest. Uther’s focus turns away from the violent display and onto Burchard, a deep-seeded anger welling up in him.

“You go to far,” Uther growls, dark and foreboding. His form towers over Burchard, and the drunken noble audibly whimpers, dropping his weapon.

All of the bravado melts away in an instant. Burchard holds his hands out in front of himself, shivering like a leaf on a winter’s tree branch. “I didn’t mean any offense – I thought – we were having a bit of a laugh, I must’ve gotten carried away –“

“Enough,” Uther says, voice barely above a murmur. His gravelly and ominous tone cut straight through to the core of Burchard, and he whimpers again.

“Yes, of course,” he says, swallowing hard. “Yes, let’s return to our meal, shall we?”

Uther sighs, shaking his head. “I’m afraid, Sir Burchard, that it is time for you to retire to your room for the evening. I’ll have guards by your door to ensure no harm comes to you during the night.” His words are neutral enough, but his tone makes it clear that the guards are not for the benefit of Burchard’s protection, but rather, his surveillance.

Burchard chuckles, gulping loudly. He looks around at the room and sees the sea of those loyal to the red and gold of Camelot, and nods quickly. “I – yes, of course, Your Majesty. I’ll see to it right away.”

As he begins to meekly exit the room, Uther nods to two guards to flank the nobleman, and they quickly join at Burchard’s side. “These guards will ensure your safe journey to your chambers, Sir Burchard. Good night.”

Merlin watches him leave, wincing against the pain all the while. He slides down the column he’s been using as a support, coming to a seat on the stone floor. With the forceful anger fading from his system, the true extent of the pain overtakes him. He begins to tremble, looking down to his leg. The fabric is torn, and beneath it, the skin is torn and blood seeps from the shallow wound. He grimaces, looking away.

Arthur rushes over, crouching in front of Merlin. He looks over the leg and shoulder laceration and says, “Gaius will need to take a look at this.” His voice is low and wavers with emotion, but he steadies himself to turn back to his father. “I’m afraid I must cut this dinner short, Your Majesty, and see to it that my manservant is delivered to the court physician.”

Uther nods, eyes unfocused around the room. “Yes, I do believe it best if the celebrations were brought to an end this evening.” He jerks his head in the direction of the door. “Do what you must, my son. Rest assured, Sir Burchard will be dealt with appropriately for his transgressions against you.”

Merlin feels a pang of exasperation at the king; of course, the transgressions against the servant are acceptable in his eyes. He grits his teeth and holds his tongue all the same.

Arthur nods to his father, then bows to Arienne. “You’ll have to forgive me, Lady Arienne, for I must leave you earlier than expected.”

She shakes her head, concern on her face. “I am the one who should apologize on behalf of my father, sire. His actions this evening are quite inexcusable.”

Arthur does not deny it, instead simply takes her extended hand, placing a hasty and distracted kiss upon it. “Good evening, my Lady,” he says, and he turns back to Merlin.

After a few grunts, winces, and general frustrations, Arthur assists Merlin into a standing upright position, and the two shuffle down the hall towards Gaius’ chambers. Arthur’s arm is wrapped securely around Merlin’s waist, and his other arm holds Merlin’s across his shoulders. Once they’ve gained enough distance from the dinner guests, he says under his breath, “Are you alright?” Arthur’s voice wavers with intensity, his hand clamping tighter into Merlin’s side.

“Never better,” Merlin grunts, facetious as ever. With every step, searing pain surges up his body, causing the whole right side of him to flinch as they walk along.

“I’m serious,” Arthur says earnestly. “Sir Burchard is lucky I didn’t run him through right then and there.” He huffs along, bearing the brunt of Merlin’s weight against his side.

“It’s lucky you didn’t,” Merlin says, hobbling along. “Because that may have complicated things.”

Arthur chuckles, shaking his head, but saying nothing. The two continue hobbling down the candlelit hallways, winding through the castle, until they reach the familiar wooden door to Gaius’ chambers. Arthur opens the door and strolls in, not bothering to knock. Gaius sits upright suddenly, peering over his spectacles at the intrusion. He’s sitting in front of a vial that’s being heated over a fire, and a strange cloud of light blue smoke is rising up and out from within. “Gaius, there’s been an incident over dinner,” Arthur says in lieu of a greeting.

Gaius takes in the scene, looking between their two grimacing faces and the blood seeping onto Merlin’s clothes. His face takes on the practiced and professional gaze of a physician, and he says, “Place him over here, along this bed.” He blows out the fire beneath the vial, smoke dissipating throughout the room, and stands to join the two men.

Arthur guides Merlin carefully down onto the horizontal surface, taking care not to brush against the whip lacerations. He sits down at a nearby bench, keeping a hand on Merlin’s shin.

Gaius comes over to examine Merlin’s lightly shivering body. “What exactly happened?” Gaius asks, leaning over his shoulder with a magnifying glass in hand.

“Sir Burchard had far too much to drink, and he decided to use Merlin as target

practice for his whip.” Arthur speaks the events with loathing as he recounts the

events.

Merlin’s eyes grow heavy as the two talk around him. His brain isn’t thinking clearly anymore – the pain is searing, but dull all at once. He’s shivering, but he feels so warm. He can hardly even remember exactly what happened, only that a great stinging sensation is working its way through his body.

Gaius looks at the wounds, holding Merlin’s shoulder down to steady his body, and discovers something that puzzles him. Spreading out from each laceration, there are thin purple streaks working their way across Merlin’s upper chest and upper thigh. Upon first glance, they appear to be just extremely visible veins, but to Gaius’ trained eye, he knows it to be one thing, and one thing only. He takes Merlin’s pulse to find his heart is fluttering so rapidly it’s difficult to distinguish a rhythym of any sort. His skin is hot and sticky with sweat, and his breathing is quick and shallow. “Can you hear me, Merlin?” Gaius asks, leaning into Merlin’s ear.

Merlin’s eyes struggle to focus on the image in front of him, but he nods at the words. His mind feels like its spinning, around and around, down the drain. “I feel fuzzy, Gaius,” he says, words slurring together.

Gaius gets up at once, rushing over to his shelving of tonics. “Get a cold compress, sire, and keep it on his forehead.” He begins rummaging through the cabinet, intently looking for some sort of tincture.

Arthur does as he’s told, rushing to the water basin with a scrap of fabric. He dampens the cloth, returning to Merlin. He drapes the fabric across Merlin’s forehead, noting how much sweat has accumulated on his skin. Merlin shudders, stronger than before, and Arthur presses down on his shoulders.

Merlin’s vision becomes distorted, filling with unseen faces. Darkness obscures his eyesight, replaced only with the pale, sorrowful images of haunting figures unknown. Figures with long, distended, gaping maws and sunken eyes float across his vision, and fear rises up into Merlin’s throat. He feels his breathing quicken, his body trembling under a pressure of force. “No, no, no, no,” Merlin mumbles, pleading with the vision. “Stay away, go away, don’t come near.” He tries to yell, but his voice is weak – barely above a whisper.

“What’s happening?” Arthur asks, a hint of desperation in his voice. He looks over to Gaius who is still rifling hurriedly through the cabinet.

“Merlin’s been poisoned,” Gaius says without turning around. He picks up vial after vial, looking for the antidote he needs. “It’s the henbane flower, sire. An extremely common plant, and extremely deadly when prepared in a certain way.” He picks up one last bottle and exclaims with success, rushing back over to Merlin. He pulls the cork out of the top, saying to Arthur, “Hold his mouth open, if you would.”

Arthur does so without hesitation, prying Merlin’s jaw open wide. A haunting whisper of a scream whistles across Merlin’s voice, his eyes clamped shut in fear at an unseen enemy. Gaius pours a hearty helping of the antidote down Merlin’s throat, and the young man promptly swallows it down, sputtering and shaking all the while. Arthur holds Merlin’s body down so as to not hurt himself or anyone else. After a minute or so of continued convulsing, Merlin’s body begins to relax with a weak breath, settling down onto the bed. His consciousness drifts into darkness, sleep overtaking him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's chapter five! We met some new faces: some kind, one absolutely vile. We'll see where this goes, I suppose!
> 
> Take care of yourself out there. Be well!


	6. Poison, Unity, and Fitting the Puzzle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur wrestles with aggression in light of Sir Burchard's transgressions. 
> 
> The women of our tale come to tend to Merlin and Arthur (though he'd be the last to admit he needed their help). 
> 
> With a slip of the tongue, Arthur lets out a closely-guarded affection.
> 
> Some delightful mlm/wlw moments are had.

Gaius and Arthur sit for a moment, breathing heavily, looking down at Merlin. He’s still trembling slightly, breath coming in shallow waves, but no longer undergoing the intense tremors of before. Confident that he is no longer in danger of hurting himself, Arthur eventually lets go of Merlin’s shoulders, instinctively moving to brush his dark, matted hair aside.

Arthur is pained, conflicted. He wants nothing more than to offer comfort, to soothe, to take him up in his arms, hold him, protect him from the illness in his veins. Instead, with Gaius so close, he pushes the vision away, resting back in his seat with a sigh. Arthur wrestles with confusion, trying to put the pieces together. “How did you know?” Arthur asks, looking to Gaius.

The old physician turns to look at Arthur, concern on his face. “Know what, sire?”

“That it was poison,” Arthur persists.

Gaius pulls back a flap of torn fabric on Merlin’s leg, revealing the spindly purple lines that now recede from the wound. He points to them, ever-so-delicately. “When henbane is applied to the skin,” he says carefully, “it results in this very unique contusion.” He leans back, folding his hands across his belly. “It also can cause rather unpleasant visions, and with Camelot on the eve of Samhain, I can only imagine what Merlin may have seen.”

Arthur pauses, brows knitting together in thought. He begins slowly putting the pieces together, and a twang of anger shoots through his chest. “You said that the henbane entered through the skin,” Arthur says, voice carefully controlled.

Gaius nods. “Yes, sire.” He keeps his face neutral as the prince does his calculations.

Arthur looks down to Merlin, feeling a fierce protection for his loyal companion. “And the henbane entered his body through the very wounds that Sir Burchard delivered.”

Gaius purses his lips, swallowing, looking intently at Arthur. “I am afraid, Arthur, that Sir Burchard may not be all that he seems.”

Arthur meets Gaius’ gaze, rage bubbling inside him. “Then he must be dealt with at once,” Arthur growls, shooting up from his sitting position to storm out towards Sir Burchard’s room. That drunken imbecile would regret the day he was born, if Arthur had anything to do with it. Already, he was envisioning all of the wondrous ways he could make sure Burchard suffered, slowly and painfully, for even _attempting_ to lay a hand on Merlin’s form –

He’s stopped short though, because before he can even exit the physician’s chambers, he’s met with a sea of people flooding into the room. Morgana, Gwen, Lady Arienne, and Lavandin, all come piling into the room, concern written on their faces.

“We came as soon as we could, is he alright?” Gwen clamors, hand clasping Morgana’s. The two walk side by side as they move into the room, close enough to see Merlin but not too close as to encroach.

“This is all my fault,” Arienne says, voice thick with worry. “I should’ve warned you of my father’s cruelty – I had misplaced hope he would be on his best behavior, given the occasion but clearly I was wrong.” She collapses onto a nearby wooden bench, and Lavandin sits delicately next to her, running a hand up and down her back.

Arthur looks around at the women, rightly confused, rightly pleased to see all of their concern for Merlin. It’s thrown him off-guard, though; he needs to destroy, to make Burchard pay. But now, with the sick vigil descending, he feels frustration rising up in him. “What’s all this?” He demands, taking in the two pairs. “Are we all here to have a surprise party?” He spreads sarcasm thick in his voice, a stubborn defense mechanism lingering from his younger years.

Arienne shakes her head, eyes earnest and open. “We wanted to see to it that Merlin was being looked after,” she says, taking Lavandin’s hand in her own unconsciously.

“ _And_ that you weren’t going to do anything reckless,” Morgana says, snarky as ever. “Like perhaps go and kill the poor drunkard?” Her hand rests on the small of Gwen’s back, a reassuring pressure for the both of them.

Arthur spins around on Morgana, fired up all over again. All he sees in his mind is the image from not an hour before: the crack of the whip, Merlin’s cries of pain as he collapsed to the ground, the vicious sneer of pleasure plastered on Burchard’s face.

He snaps his focus back to Morgana, seething. “That _drunkard_ ,” he says, spitting his words out, “is the violent, offensive, and vile father of the woman I’m _supposed_ to be courting, whom I _don’t even want_ to marry – ”

“Well that makes two of us,” Arienne says under her breath to Lavandin, who covers a smirk with her hand.

Arthur plows on, “ – and that poor old _fool_ is also the man who _poisoned_ Merlin! Yes, you heard me. Poisoned. With _henbane_.” He huffs, catching his breath.

“Henbane?” Gwen says, breathless. She looks to Merlin, brow wrinkled in concern, and back to Arthur. 

“Yes! I’d _like_ to think I made that quite clear,” Arthur continues angrily, hands propped on his hips. “So pardon me for trying to protect the man who is so dear to me.”

He freezes instantly.

His heart skips a beat when he realizes what he’s said, out in the open for all to hear.

His jaw drops open, breathless, as he looks between the two pairs of women around him. Gwen gazes at him with astonishment, Morgana with an air of satisfaction, and Arienne raises her eyebrows in an unreadable expression.

Arthur stammers, taking a step backwards. “I didn’t mean – well – he’s dear to all of us, clearly – ” 

“I think I’ll leave you all to look after Merlin for a bit,” Gaius interjects awkwardly. All heads in the room snap in Gaius’ direction, almost forgetting that he was sitting in the room. “He’s in a stable condition,” he continues, “but if he wakes, be sure to fetch me.”

They offer hasty bows and curtsies, exchanging pleasantries for the evening. They all watch as the court physician lumbers out of the room and into a small interior chamber, closing the door behind him.

Immediately, all eyes of the women fall on Arthur, no sense of surprise or anger there. “What are you all looking at?” Arthur demands, backing away from their peering eyes. This was too much, certainly. Too much, too much, to be under their scrutiny.

“Arthur,” Gwen says softly, gesturing around the room. “It’s alright. Look around you.”

His gaze flits across the women, still reeling from his conversational misstep. He feels afraid, of all things. Exposed to them, like they’ve walked in on him in a moment of intimacy he never wanted known. They can’t know, no, they can’t know how he feels, what Merlin, means to him, not in earnest. He’s defensive, heart racing ever quicker. “You would all do well to mind your own business,” he snaps, continuing to back away like a trapped animal.

“Stop prattling on, you ignorant clod,” Morgana says, just as intense. “Look at us. _Really_ look at us. What do you see?”

Arthur pauses, jolted by her direct nature, breathing heavily, scrunching his eyebrows together. He follows her line of sight down to her hand. He watches the way Morgana’s touch on Gwen’s waist seems to fit so naturally, so comfortably, like they’ve held each other like this forever. He looks to Arienne and Lavandin, and he notices the way Arienne’s thumb unconsciously brushes over Lavandin’s, the same way Merlin’s hand does to him. He sees the ribbons tied around their wrists, and how the color matches the other’s dress to perfection.

His breath leaves him, all at once.

_Idiot,_ he thinks. What a complete idiot he is.

A comforting warmth grows in his chest as the pieces begin falling into place at the image around him. His whole body relaxes, and his knees falter at the relief of what he sees. He laughs, all of the nervous rage and fear spilling out of him all at once. His heart feels like its breaking open, spilling out in laughter, gasping for breath, and he braces himself against his knees for some sense of grounding.

Gwen nods encouragingly to him, and she walks over to where he stands. Careful and gentle as ever, she guides him over to the bench by Merlin’s bed, setting him carefully down. “Do you see?” she asks quietly.

All Arthur does is nod, speechless.

Arienne, from where she sits at Gaius’ dining table, says, “It’s alright, sire. We see you, too. We’re all safe here, together.”

“Mmm,” Morgana ponders, tilting her head back and forth. “Safe… Or, mutually assuring each other’s destruction, depending on your point of view.” She chuckles to herself, looking over to Gwen with light brimming in her eyes.

Arthur feels continuous waves of relief and comfort wash over him. He’s never felt like this before. He’s kept himself, and his feelings, feelings for _Merlin,_ of all people, a secret for so long, he almost thought he was imagining them. But here, in front of him, he sees what he has felt since he was born. Joy, peace, and pure, unabashed, unashamed, adoration. And he smiles, resting in the comfort he feels.

Gwen takes Arthur’s hand in her own, patting it gently. “Stay by his side for a while. We’ll take turns keeping you company.”

“And making sure I don’t sneak off to do something I’ll come to regret?” He mumbles weakly.

This earns a laugh that rings out through the chamber. The mood livens as smiles paint the faces of all those in the room. “Precisely,” Gwen says, grinning all the while. “When the morning comes, we’ll determine what’s to be done about our dear friend Sir Burchard.”

A nod goes across the women of the room, muttering comments of agreement.

Arthur bows his head, feeling slightly overwhelmed by their outpouring of support, especially so soon after his outburst. “I offer my apologies to you all,” he mutters, eyes trained on the ground. “I spoke foolishly. I hope for your forgiveness.”

“There’s nothing to apologize for, Arthur,” Arienne says, smiling reassuringly.

“Well, I wouldn’t say that,” Morgana says, smirking. “I’ve got a list of grievances if you’d like to have a look.”

Another laugh goes through the chamber, Arthur joining in this time. The mood settles, and each of them in turn offer a saying of good health to Merlin’s sleeping form before returning to their chambers. They keep to their word, though, and starting with dear Gwen, the women take shifts through the night to offer company and solace to Arthur.

He stays at Merlin’s side all through the night, something deep inside him glowing after being brought into the light. He gingerly takes a hold of Merlin’s hand, awash in an unexpected peace, and doesn’t let go until he drifts off to sleep, right there on the unforgiving wooden bench.

***

Merlin’s consciousness returns to him the next morning, and with it, a throbbing in his head. He groans, shifting on the bed, bringing a hand to his forehead as though he could rub the pain away. Blinking his eyes open against the too-bright sunlight of Samhain’s morning, he sees the familiar and comforting sights of Gaius’ chambers.

He yawns, stretching his arms overhead, and turns his head to the side. To his surprise, there, slumped over on his side, lies Arthur. At some point, he’d been covered in a simple wool blanket that, through the night, has bunched up and tangled in his boots. One hand rests on Merlin’s bed, the other arm sticking out beneath his side at a rather odd and uncomfortable angle. He chuckles to himself, a mixture of surprise and gratitude at seeing Arthur there so near. Merlin’s chest warms at the sight of Arthur’s serene face smushed against the wooden seat, a faint smile spreading on his face.

He sits up, the pounding in his head spreading down from his temples to his neck. He winces, closing his eyes against the light streaming in from the window. As he massages his temples, he hears shifting from across the room. Cracking one eye open, he sees Morgana rising up from where she rests in a nearby chair.

She smiles, breathing out a sigh of relief. “Merlin, you’re awake,” she whispers, crossing to him. She kneels down in front of him, placing a tender hand on his cheek. “How are you feeling?”

Her voice sounds like it’s been amplified, ringing through Merlin’s ears. He squints at her against the pain in his head, eyes watering. “Like a beaten sack of potatoes,” he mutters, pressing the heel of his hand into his skull. “What’s happened?”

Morgana runs her thumb gently across Merlin’s cheekbone. Her eyebrows knit together, concerned. She’s withholding something from him, but what, he can’t be sure. “I’ll fetch Gaius,” she says solemnly. “He’ll explain better than I ever could.” She stands at once, rushing off to retrieve Gaius.

After a moment or two, Gaius enters hurriedly, wrapping himself in his dark blue morning robes. He moves to sit in front of Merlin, grunting on the way down into his seat. Relief and worry mix on his face as he looks on at the young warlock. “Good morning, Merlin,” he says softly. “Welcome back to the land of the living.”

Merlin groans at the sound, head slumping forward. “I wish I were dead right about now,” he mutters to himself.

Gaius stifles a chuckle, seeing the extent of Merlin’s pain. “You’ve always been one for the dramatics,” he tutters, reaching for a vial on the nearby table. He uncorks the small bottle and places it into Merlin’s hand, curling his delicate fingers around the glass. “Drink this,” he says, “it will help with the pain and sensitivity.”

He does so without question, swallowing the contents down in one gulp. Immediately, Merlin feels a pleasant sensation work its way through his body, easing the pain in his head. He opens his eyes and is pleasantly surprised he can do so without being blinded by light.

Morgana places a small cup into Merlin’s other hand and guides it up to his mouth. “Have some water, you must be parched,” she says, trying and failing to hide the sentiment she feels.

Merlin drinks eagerly, the cooling sensation refreshing him. He sighs, grateful for the support from those around him. “Thank you,” he whispers, conscious of the sleeping prince by his side. He looks between Morgana and Gaius, questions running wild through his head. “What exactly happened last night?”

Morgana and Gaius cast a sideways glance at each other, hesitant as to how to proceed. They both look back to Merlin, solemn concern written across their faces. “You don’t remember?” Morgana asks.

Merlin shakes his head, frowning. “Last thing I remember is Sir Burchard asking me to dance. The man is a right mess after a few glasses of wine, though I must’ve helped myself to some as well, with the state of my head this morning.”

Gaius sighs, placing a hand in the crook of Merlin’s elbow. “Come to the table, Merlin,” Gaius says softly. “It seems our Sir Burchard is more dangerous than he presents himself to be.”

Gaius and Morgana guide Merlin, still weak on his feet, over to the nearby table. As Gaius prepares a large pot of apple-cinnamon porridge – Merlin’s favorite – he explains Sir Burchard’s game, the poison, and Lady Arienne’s concerns about her own father. Merlin listens on, anger percolating in his stomach, at the recounting of the night. To Burchard, he was nothing more than a play toy, another piece of entertainment, alive or dead.

“You should’ve seen Arthur,” Morgana says, tucking into a bowl of the sweet smelling porridge. “He would’ve gone right to Burchard’s chambers and ended him then and there, had we given him the chance.”

Merlin furrows his brow, taken aback. “That doesn’t seem like him,” he says, stirring his steaming hot bowl. “Arthur wouldn’t cross another noble for just a servant.”

“But you’re not just a servant, now, are you?” She mutters, leaning in close to him. Her eyes are soft in a way Merlin doesn’t often see. They’re filled with care as they look him over, a smile spreading across her face.

Merlin flushes pink, looking over his shoulder to see Arthur, still slumped to the side, softly snoring. He watches his prince’s chest slowly rise and fall: a natural, constant comfort. That familiar warmth rises up from his stomach, something he cannot quite name. “He really stayed all night?” he asks, doubtful.

“Oh yes,” Morgana says, scooping porridge up from the bowl. “He was glued to your side all through the evening.” She smiles to Merlin, eating bite after bite of her breakfast.

Merlin does the same, eating the porridge with great speed and ferocity. His body feels wracked, as though his muscles have been kneaded and worked like stiff dough. The porridge, though, soothes him like it always does. Gaius sits down across from the two sorcerers, and they all enjoy a moment of stillness in the chaos.

After some time of idle chatter as they scoop up their breakfast, Merlin hears some stirring sounds from behind him. He turns around to see Arthur, cracking his bones and groaning, as he wakes. Merlin can’t help but notice the exposed thin sliver of skin beneath the hem of his tunic when he stretches his arms overhead, heart fluttering for a beat. He watches as Arthur instinctively extends a hand out to the bed where Merlin was sleeping, and when he finds it empty, shoots up abruptly to a seated position. His head spins around – up, down, left, – until he spins all the way around and locks eyes with Merlin. He smiles, beaming wide, eyes lighting up at the sight of his conscious companion.

“ _MER_ lin!” He exclaims, laughing with relief. “You’re awake!” He stands, stumbling over to the dining table. He extends his arms out, as though to embrace Merlin, but thinks better of it when he notices Gaius and Morgana sitting around the table. He clears his throat, trying to stifle his smile of pure joy, and claps Merlin firmly on the shoulder. “I was – _we_ – ahem – _we_ were worried about you.” His cheeks deepen in color as he beams down at Merlin.

He grasps Arthur’s wrist in his hand, looking up with gratitude. “I am told that I have you to thank in part for my speedy recovery.” He smiles, grazing his thumb back and forth on Arthur’s wrist. Just the soft touch, the mere contact of his hand on his delicate skin, soothes him further.

Arthur’s face softens. He sits down next to Merlin, giving his shoulder a firm squeeze. “Nonsense,” he says, voice warm with ease. “I would’ve done the same for anyone.” His clear blue eyes look straight into Merlin, and they both take comfort in each other’s presence. Where Merlin might otherwise feel awkward, squirming under such a long gaze, he finds himself lulled into peace. He could sit here all day, he decides, swimming in the crystal blue waters of Arthur’s eyes.

Morgana snorts, choking on her drink. She leans forward, trying to pass off her laughter as a coughing fit. Turning her face away, she pounds her fist into her chest so none of the others can see the smirk growing on her face.

Arthur breaks the gaze as he rolls his eyes. Knowing Morgana all too well, he sees right through her act. “Something to add, Morgana?” he asks dryly.

She clears her throat, then takes a stabilizing inhale in through the nose. She turns back to the small group, saying, “Nothing, really.” She turns her gaze back to the bowl in front of her as she says, “It just seemed to me last night your sentiments were otherwise.”

Arthur scoffs, leaning around Merlin to eye her across the table. “I’m not the only one who’s been hiding something away, eh?” He leers in her direction, failing to threaten her in any way.

She rolls her eyes. “Oh please, Arthur, Merlin’s known what you saw last night for quite some time.”

Merlin’s brow knits together, frowning. He looks between the two of them, confused. Does she mean magic? If so, did she tell Arthur? He feels his pulse accelerate, apprehension rising.

Arthur looks to him, dumbfounded. “You knew?” Incredulous, he scoops up another spoonful of porridge.

“Uhh –” Merlin starts, noncommittally shaking his head.

“You knew about Morgana and Gwen?” Arthur mumbles through his food, manners flown out the window.

Relief pulses through Merlin, and he lets out a hearty chuckle. Raising an eyebrow, he asks innocently, “Whatever could you mean?”

Arthur’s eyes go wide in expectation. His mouth hangs open, and he gestures broadly through the air in a nonsensical manner. “About how – Morgana – and Gwen – and they’re – you know – ”

Merlin and Morgana share a brief glance, both enjoying the prince’s flounderings a bit too much. Merlin turns back to Arthur, all seriousness. “No, I don’t know,” he emphasizes. “Perhaps you could use your _words,_ sire, and explain yourself?”

Arthur groans, heavily and loudly, slamming his palms into the tables surface. Merlin wonders to himself as to whether Arthur’s eyes are actually physically capable of rolling back into his skull, with how dramatic he’s being. “You know what I mean,” he grumbles, not bothering to explain himself further.

Merlin looks to Morgana, and then Gaius, and they both look to him with a pleasant exasperation. So he nods, a smug look on his face, deciding to put the poor prince out of his misery. “Sure, I knew” he says simply.

Arthur smacks his spoon down on the table, sputtering away in surprise. “You knew? You kn – of course you knew, you’re Merlin for gods’ sake.” He pauses for a millisecond before he resurges, saying, “And the Lady Arienne and her servant? Lavandin? Did you know as well?”

At that, Merlin frowns, tottering his head back and forth. “I had my suspicions,” he says, “But it’s hardly my place to pry or speculate into such matters.”

“How?” Arthur demands. “How could you _possibly_ have known?”

Merlin looks down into his dwindling bowl of porridge, absentmindedly moving its contents around. “I, for one,” he teases, “enjoy looking past the end of my own nose on occasion.”

This time, it’s Gaius who snorts over his beverage, not bothering to conceal his amusement.

Arthur scoffs, a devilish smile on his lips. He roughly tousles Merlin’s mop of black hair, saying, “You’re lucky I feel sorry for you this morning, half-wit, or you’d be mucking out my horses for a _week_ after that.”

The two of them laugh, playfully wrestling with each other while Morgana and Gaius share a knowing look between them. Arthur eventually ends up with Merlin’s head locked in the grasp of his arm, and Merlin half-cries, half-laughs, for release. He concedes, letting his head go. As he brings himself back upright, Arthur instinctively wipes away a stray piece of oat from Merlin’s chin. He drops his hand down onto Merlin’s shoulder, then traces it down his arm to briefly squeeze his hand, smiling all the while.

“I’m glad you’re alright, Merlin,” Arthur says, voice hoarse.

Merlin smiles in return, squeezing back. “Me too, Arthur.”


	7. Remembrance, Feasts, and Death Descending

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Samhain, the day where the veil between the physical and spiritual world is at its thinnest, is upon Camelot.
> 
> A great betrayal makes itself known.
> 
> Merlin puts his world on the line for the sake of his prince.

After a regenerative morning for the small gathering, the day commences with a full swing. Morgana takes the helm of seeing to the final decorative touches for the evening’s Samhain ceremony, Gwen trailing behind her all the while, radiant as ever. The castle’s decoration properly sets the scene for the introspective and melancholy celebration; deep colors of black, red, and blue hang along the walls and from the ceiling, and flower vases have been filled with arrangements reflecting the deep color tones.

Arthur and Merlin make sure to keep themselves, along with Lady Arienne and Lavandin, entertained by going out into the lower town’s market. Merlin and Arienne busy themselves by fawning over the fine silks for sale, all in their deep, rich colors of burgundy, maroon, dark blue, and black.

Arthur and Lavandin admire the nearby blacksmith’s stall. While they look at the fine daggers, Arthur is delightfully surprised to find that she is just as passionate about a well-balanced blade as himself. The group meanders through the streets of the town, quickly filling their arms with celebratory goods, saying hello to Camelot’s citizens as they prepare for the coming evening.

Over the course of the day, Merlin only sees Sir Burchard once. He spots the nobleman in the courtyard, striding confidently out from around a corner, smiling as loudly and brightly as ever. Merlin stiffens at the sight of him, feeling the phantom stings of his lacerations on his body. Burchard catches his eye, waving violently and casting a wink in his direction. Arthur, at his side, clenches his fists as he moves to engage with him. Merlin quickly grabs Arthur’s forearm, shaking his head, and Arthur relents to watch him pass.

“Sir Burchard will pay for his transgressions against you,” Arthur says, voice sounding eerily intense and similar to his father’s.

“His time will come,” Merlin says patiently, releasing his hold on Arthur. “It always does for men like him.”

The evening’s ceremony arrives, and the candles light the way throughout the castle. Merlin helps Arthur prepare for the evening, dressing him in his dark grey tunic and black jacket. Merlin, too, is dressed in muted colors – his shirt is a deep, almost black, purple, and his kerchief around his neck is midnight black. Merlin tugs on the opening to Arthur’s jacket, smoothing out the thick fabric. He runs his hands along the jacket’s front, seeing that there aren’t any wrinkles hiding anywhere. Feeling Arthur’s warmth radiating off of his torso brings a familiar comfort to Merlin, enjoying the tender routine of seeing to the prince’s clothing. The faint scent of pine wafts from the fabric, further bringing him some solace.

He rights himself, straightening Arthur’s collar. He sees that Arthur’s eyes are distant, foggy, lost in thought. “Something on your mind?” Merlin asks, voice low and solemn.

“Mmm,” Arthur murmurs, nodding his head habitually. He looks off and out the window, bringing a hand up to rest on Merlin’s. “Samhain always makes me think of my mother,” he says quietly. He strokes the back of Merlin’s hand with his own, his fingers absentmindedly roving up and down.

Merlin just nods, letting his free hand come to rest on Arthur’s chest. He can feel his heart beating under his palm, calm and steady as ever. “Of course,” he says, looking down. His thoughts drift to his own mother, far away in Ealdor. He imagines what she might be doing tonight; perhaps she’s sitting around a fire in the village center, sharing a meal with friends. Perhaps she’s lit a candle in her home, thinking of those she’s lost, people Merlin has never met.

“I wonder if she would be proud,” Arthur says, brooding. He sighs heavily, looking steadily at Merlin. He brings a hand under Merlin’s chin, tilting his face to come level with his own.

Merlin meets his gaze, enjoying the feeling of Arthur’s fingers on his skin. He takes in Arthur’s face and all the complexity that lies there – worry, sadness, pride, joy, care – and smiles. “I think she is,” he says simply.

Arthur’s eyes flicker between Merlin’s icy blue eyes and the soft smile spreading on his lips. “Do you?” He asks, head drawing towards Merlin’s. When Merlin nods gently, he asks, “What makes you think?”

Merlin starts to lean closer, eyelids growing heavy. “Because, Arthur,” he murmurs, lips grazing across Arthur’s cheek, “I’m proud of you too.”

Tenderly, slowly, delicately, he presses his lips to Arthur’s cheek, pleasure moving through them. Arthur sighs, sinking into the gentle kiss, wrapping his hand around Merlin’s cheek. Merlin’s hand tightens on Arthur’s jacket, pressing into his warming presence. He smiles against Arthur’s skin, melting into the moment.

They pull away slightly from each other, resting their foreheads on one another. Merlin playfully brushes his nose across Arthur’s, whom sniffles and wrinkles up his face. They both chuckle, hands lightly resting on each other, breathing slowly.

“Merlin,” Arthur murmurs, tracing a finger across Merlin’s features – his soft brow, his high cheekbones, his rounded ear, his tense jawline.

“Yes, Arthur?” Merlin speaks slowly, enjoying the luxurious sensation of stillness with his companion.

Arthur takes a cleansing breath, pulling his head back in line with his shoulders. “It’s time for Samhain’s feast, it seems.”

Merlin brings a hand to cup around Arthur’s neck, savoring his smooth touch. “Yes, it appears that way.” Taking one last sweeping look at his prince, he steps away, dropping his hands humbly to fold across his front. He gives a bow to Arthur, and says, “Lead the way, sire.” He steps to the side, smiling with comfort, and gestures for Arthur to head out the door.

Arthur wordlessly returns the bow, drinking in the image of his companion that grows dearer every hour. He sets his chest, adjusting the silver ring on his finger, and leads the way out into the festivities beyond.

The banquet hall teems with nobles, knights, servants, guards, and, of course, the royal families at the head of the table. Moods are properly somber, with everyone dressed in dark, muted colors to honor the occasion. The court players rove through the hall, setting the tone with somber lyres and mournful flutes. Arthur and Arienne chat with each other, occasionally chuckling softly at something the other says.

Merlin keeps his distance as much as he can from Sir Burchard, watching his every move. He’s distrustful of the nobleman, and he’s never been one to hide a grudge. Burchard fidgets in his seat, uncomfortable and preoccupied, as Uther talks his ear off about some such nonsense or another. Every time he leans over to a servant to ask for a glass of wine, he finds his request falls on deaf ears. His eyes flit about the room, looking for something he can’t seem to find. Merlin tries not to pay him any mind, keeping focused on running platter after platter of roasted chicken, pumpkin, acorn squash, and potatoes from the kitchen to the feasting table. Idle chatter passes amongst the gathering. It’s noticeably more muted than other feasts, though, out of respect to the spirits of ancestors past.

After the majority of the food has been eaten (with a few sneaky snacks had behind closed doors by the servants), Uther stands from his seat, raising his goblet. He surveys the crowd with his careful and practiced gaze – one that is calm, neutral, and completely in control. The conversations turn to a hush, hurried whispers passing around, until all is silent. The crowd has all eyes on the king, poised to deliver his speech.

Uther smiles. “Thank you, all,” he starts, “for your presence and solidarity this Samhain evening. It is with a heavy and hopeful heart that we gather here today.” He pauses, eyes intense. “Honoring the dead… those passed on to the peace of the spirit realm… is never an easy task.” Uther looks down to his son, placing a hand on Arthur’s shoulder. “On this evening, above all others, I feel closest to the love of my life. The mother of my son. It is an opportunity I never wish to take for granted.” His voice wavers with emotion for a moment. He pauses. His breathing slows, steeling himself to continue.

Arthur places a supportive hand on Uther’s. “And neither do I. I hope to make her proud every day, and tonight, I know that she is.” His eyes briefly flit to Merlin, a somber smile across his face.

Merlin’s stomach flips end over end, and he smiles back, just for a moment. He hastily looks away and back to the king.

Uther nods, clearing his throat. “Yes, my son,” he says, “I feel it too.” He turns back to the gathering, raising his goblet high in the air. “If you will all raise your glasses, please.” There’s a gentle rumble and clinking that goes through the hall as everyone raises their cups. Uther continues, “A toast. To those who have passed beyond our world. May we all one day – ”

_CLANG!_

_CLANG!_

The last of his toast is interrupted by a loud ringing from beyond the room.

The warning bell has begun to sound.

A commotion rises up amongst the guests. Worried murmurs pass through the crowd. Some awkwardly continue holding their cup aloft, trying to make sense of what’s going on. Uther looks around, perplexed. He summons a knight to his side, mutters something in his ear, and sends him out of the room.

Merlin immediately crosses to Arthur’s seat. Confusion is written across Arthur’s face. Merlin feels a sense of dread and foreboding somewhere deep within himself.

No.

Something more.

Something dark, rotten, cruel.

Horrific.

The sensation is oppressive, making him suddenly on high alert.

“Something’s not right, sire,” Merlin mutters to Arthur.

“Astute as always, Merlin,” he snarks back. He stands, looking to Uther. “What’s happening?”

Uther shakes his head, maintaining his decorum. “I’m unsure,” he says.

Merlin’s sense of doom continues rising up inside him. He scans the room, looking for anything out of place. He sees Morgana standing as well, uneasiness in her eyes. Gwen trails behind her, puzzled at the warning bell.

Sir Burchard is nowhere to be found.

“Arthur,” Merlin whispers. He grabs Arthur’s shoulder, leaning in. “Where’s Sir Burchard gone?”

A spark of adrenaline shoots through Arthur. He spins around, frowning. “He was here but a moment ago,” he says.

“I think we should leave,” Merlin urges, pulling Arthur’s arm. He resists, shaking loose of Merlin’s grasp.

Just then, the doors to the banquet hall burst open. Exclamations of surprise scatter through the crowd. A singular guard, covered in grime, runs to the king. Her expression is one of pure, unfiltered terror. She’s breathing heavily, like she’s been running an endurance race. She whispers something in Uther’s ear, and the king’s face turns pale as the moon. He nods solemnly, dismissing the guard. The terrified soldier runs back out of the room, huffing all the way.

“Seal the doors!” Uther commands.

Two guards immediately fetch a sturdy plank of wood, placing it across the grand entrance. Some guests leap up from their seats, demanding to know what is happening. Anger and fear rise up around them, feeding off of itself.

A small group of knights forms around the king and Arthur. Their faces are intense and focused.

Merlin hears Uther say, “There’s been an incursion at our western gate. Soldiers, moving towards the castle.” Glances go between all of the knights, confusion on their faces.

“Why was there no word of such from the patrols?” Arthur asks.

Uther looks gravely at his son. “The messenger says it’s as though they emerged out of nothing. There was only darkness, and then haunting figures of a sea of men. Surely, it is the work of sorcery.” He swallows, steeling his shoulders. “They’ve breached the citadel. We must get everyone somewhere secure. Lady Dahlia, you will lead them. Take a handful of knights. The rest of you stay with me, we will seek out the threat.”

They all nod, assuming their positions throughout the room.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Uther hollers over the ringing bell, “Please follow Lady Dahlia into the inner chamber! There is a threat in Camelot, and you will be better protected deeper within our citadel.” He gestures rapidly to an older knight in his circle, Lady Dahlia, curled hair tied and unkempt atop her head.

Dahlia immediately springs into action, shouting, “All of you follow me! Quickly, please!” She gestures towards the rear exit, leading the frantic crowd out of the room.

_BANG!_

A shockwave blasts against the door, but it holds firm. Screams fill the room, nobles pushing past each other to get away.

Merlin turns to Morgana, grabbing her arm before she gets swept away. “Stay here,” he says. “We need you.”

Her eyes are filled with the same sinking dread that fills his insides, but she nods. She turns to Gwen, who’s fighting against the crowd to connect with Gaius. “Stay with Gaius and Arienne!” she calls to her companion. “You’ll look out for each other.”

Gwen nods, eyes filled with a want to stay, but she tears through the crowd, Arienne and Lavandin right by her side.

_BANG!_

Another uprising of screams. Nobles claw past each other now, piling up at the exit to the room. Gaius grasps Gwen’s hand, and the group clings to each other against the growing hysteria. Merlin catches Gaius’ eyes, and they nod to each other. _Till we meet again,_ the look says. Feeling a pang in his stomach, Merlin looks away from the roaring crowd.

_BANG!_

The integrity of the door begins to falter. Hollow, empty moans mix with the cacophony of screams.

Arthur roughly grabs Merlin by the forearm, pulling him towards the collapsing door.

“How could they be here already?” Merlin asks urgently.

“Don’t ask stupid questions, Merlin,” Arthur replies. He keeps his gaze forward. Pushing Merlin protectively behind him, he draws his sword.

_BANG!_

The support beam cracks, barely hanging on.

“What do we do?” Morgana asks to Merlin, bouncing back and forth on her feet.

“What we were born to do,” he says simply, whispering into her ear. “Use our gifts.”

She nods, pulling her elegant dagger from its holster. She holds it at the ready, breath steady. The two stay a few paces behind the larger group, where their gifts can be used without being easily noticed. The sorcerers stand, shoulder-to-shoulder and at the ready.

_CRASH!_

The doors burst open, wood splintering in all directions. A dismal, haunting, desperate sound permeates through the room. In barges a wave of soldiers, clad head to toe in black, rotting, rusted armor. They move as one, like tar, striking out as though they’re one entity made of hundreds of pieces. They make contact with the knights, and Camelot’s finest defend bravely. Their swords clash, metal-against-metal, as they keep the bodies at bay.

Arthur charges ahead, screaming a courageous battle cry. He singles a ghoulish soldier out from the rest, easily running him through. The soldier collapses to the ground, motionless.

For a moment. 

Then, while Arthur is otherwise occupied with another soldier, the body on the ground twitches. His limbs lift into the air at odd angles, almost as though he is being pulled aloft from his center. Merlin watches as the knight sways on its feet, pulsing with death and decay.

The soldier takes a swing at Arthur’s back, but before he can land the blow, Merlin extends out his hand. With a pulse of magic, he sends the knight flying through the air, crashing into two farther beyond.

“They’re undead!” A call comes from a knight across the hall. “They’re undead! They’re un – ” the voice cuts off suddenly, silenced by an enemy blade.

Out of the corner of Merlin’s vision, he watches as Morgana’s eyes flash emerald green. Her dagger lights a hot red, and she slices it across the throat of an oncoming rotting soldier. From the head emerges a grotesque, strangled, gargling sound, attached only by the decaying flesh. Still it proceeds on, Morgana retreating further. Static lightning crackles around her, and she pushes her hand against the soldier’s torso. He twitches and spasms, collapsing to the floor, motionless.

Arthur’s surrounded, with three blackened bodies bearing down on him. He grunts, sweat dripping down his face with exertion. With one well-aimed blow, he slices across the chests of all three, pushing them away with his torso.

Merlin assists with the maneuver by lunging forward, using the earth as a lever to send the knights back further. They slam into the wall, slowly sliding to the ground and collapsing into rest.

But there are too many, Merlin quickly realizes. A dozen or so of Camelot’s knights are clashing against the unending onslaught, quickly losing ground. Pained cries echo through the chamber as the necrotic forces push their way onward.

“Retreat!” comes the call from Uther who is already running for the rear door. “Retreat!”

The call goes through the knights, and they take off sprinting for the interior chamber beyond. Arthur grabs Merlin and Morgana’s shoulders, pushing them both ahead of himself.

“Morgana!” he cries after noticing her presence here for the first time. “Do you have a death wish?”

“Shut up and run,” she retorts, gathering up her skirt and sprinting ahead.

They all, one after the other, funnel through the significantly smaller door into the interior chamber, Merlin and Arthur standing to either side to allow everyone in before them.

The undead forces start clamoring for them, nowhere near as speedy as they are strong. Arthur ducks through the doorway, Merlin moving to close the door. As he does, he sees two figures enter through the banquet hall doorway leading a platoon of more dark armor-clad soldiers: one, a humanoid figure, dressed in rotting black armor like the others, but standing well above 8 feet tall, and the other, a squat, portly, familiar-looking noble.

Burchard.

Anger surges through Merlin’s body, rumbling down to his bones. He funnels that energy into earthen magic, and with a clenching of his fist and a golden glow, he collapses the roof into the room.

Crackling boulders come crashing from the ceiling, landing on some soldiers, piling up to block the doorway where they regroup. Merlin forces the door shut as rocks pile up on the other side, turning back to the room.

It’s in utter chaos. Nobles are continuing to push further into the castle; someone, though it’s unclear who, has called for their escape into the surrounding woods. Gaius and Gwen both scurry about, applying bandages to some wounded knights. Uther leans against the wall, heaving, hand resting on his side.

When Gaius catches Merlin’s eye, he summons him over. He’s hurriedly trying to stop the gushing blood from the neck of an unconscious knight, Sir Leon, his face turning paler by the moment. “Hold pressure here,” he commands, giving Merlin a knowing eye and guiding his hands to her neck.

Merlin looks around furtively, sees others are preoccupied elsewhere, and mutters a quiet healing incantation. A light wave of golden magic surges through his hands and into her neck, instantly stopping the bleeding. He continues pressing down, though, until Gaius returns with extra bandages to wrap her neck with. “They’re undead, but they can be killed with forces aided by magic,” Merlin says, shaken by the encounter. “Two figures just entered the hall beyond. One is like the others, an undead soldier, but absolutely massive in size. The other is – ”

“Burchard,” Gaius says bitterly, finishing Merlin’s sentence. Taking Merlin’s silence that follows as confirmation, he adds, “I figured as much.”

Morgana and Arthur approach, seeing their intense conversation. “What’s that about Sir Burchard?” Arthur demands, wiping the sweat from his brow.

Gaius purses his lips, continuing to wrap Sir Leon’s neck. “He’s commanding the soldiers just beyond this door,” he says. “With what I suspect to be a Death Sovereign at his side.”

Morgana’s eyebrows knit together. “Death Sovereign?” she asks, clueless.

Gaius nods, face sullen. “A creation of powerful sorcery. It can command hundreds of undead soldiers at the whims of its master.”

Merlin watches as Arthur clenches his jaw, breathing heavily. “Sir Burchard has sent an unstoppable attack on Camelot? But why? When we were in the midst of alliance talks?”

A rumble against the door catches the attention of the dwindling gathering in the room. Merlin instinctively reaches for Arthur’s shoulder, pulling him back. “Let’s not stick around to find out, shall we?” When Arthur resists, he says sarcastically, “Or would you rather you, and your father, and the rest of us, were filleted like fish at the hands of knights that cannot be killed with steel?”

Arthur frowns, setting his jaw, looking around at his friends, then to his father.

Uther nods, still breathing heavily. He’s leaning on his side, face discolored. “You must go,” he says, voice weak. “It is me they want. I will protect your exit.”

Merlin looks to the King’s side and sees a violent gash torn through his tunic. He must have been struck in the brief combat, yet hesitated to say anything. Blood pours from the wound as he holds his side closed. He slips down the wall, landing with a hard _thud_ on the stone.

“Father,” Arthur runs to his side, kneeling before him. “You cannot stay, you need healing.”

The rumbling behind the door grows in volume, the oppressive doom growing in Merlin’s chest. “Arthur,” he says, voice emphatic, “We must go. Now.”

“I will not leave my father!” Arthur cries, voice on the verge of desperation. Uther falls to the side, coughing, and Arthur rests his body across his propped leg.

Merlin sighs, frustrated with the Pendragon knack for stubbornness. He turns to his friends, saying, “You all must go. There is a stone building not too far into the Darkling Woods. Morgana will lead you there – she can protect you.”

Morgana nods, head held high. She holds out her arm, and Merlin clasps her forearm, a firm shake of agreement. “They’re in good hands,” she says with certainty.

Gwen looks between the two of them, befuddled. She holds her tongue, though; now is not the time. Morgana turns to the group, gives a terse nod, and begins to urge them towards the door.

Gaius wavers for a moment, concern in his eyes for Merlin. The young warlock sees the worry, and pulls his mentor into a tight hug. “Don’t worry, Gaius,” he says. “You know me… always careful.”

Gaius pulls away, looking Merlin over one last time. He places a hand to his cheek, a fatherly love in his eyes. Wordlessly, he tears himself away, heading out the door where Morgana waits. She pulls the door shut behind them, the resounding clang of the door offering a note of finality.

And with that, there remains only Merlin, Arthur, and Uther, standing against the onslaught. Arthur remains crouched next to his father, arms wrapped protectively around his torso. His front is smeared with his father’s blood. That same blood dribbles from the corner of Uther’s mouth, breath growing more and more labored. He brings a weak hand to hold Arthur’s cheek, trying to mutter something to his son. The words are too quiet for Merlin to hear, though. He just watches as Arthur shakes his head, pressing his forehead against Uther’s. Merlin places himself squarely behind the two men, feet planted to the ground, eyes trained on the door.

The rumbling ceases. The door creaks open with much less fanfare. It swings on its hinges, sinister, and slowly reveals the plump figure of Sir Burchard, surrounded by his army of the dead. All of the crass humor about him is gone now. His eyes are black, void of any light, and he sneers down at the two Pendragon men, unsurprised to see them right where he wants them. The Death Sovereign, a hollow and mournful sound emanating from its being, trails behind its master.

Uther spasms where he lays, fury in his eyes. “You traitor,” he spits, breath coming in spurts. Arthur clings to his father, his futile attempts to restore his health.

Burchard just tutters, shaking his head back and forth. “No, Uther Pendragon,” he says, growling. “You became the traitor all those years ago.” He chants an incantation, and his eyes pulse black, sending thin veins of darkness across his own face.

Uther groans, back arcing upwards in pain. His own eyes turn black, a similar varicose darkness spreading across his face. Arthur holds him down, face contorted in anguish.

“I’m going to enjoy putting an end to you both,” Burchard taunts. “Your deaths are but the first step in dismantling your tyrannical decimation of those with magic!”

“Sorcerer!” Uther shouts. His power may be leaving him, but his spite fuels him on. “You filthy subversion against nature!”

“Enough of you,” Burchard drones. He ticks his head to the side. With a horrendous _crack_ , Uther’s torso collapses in on itself. The king’s body goes limp, completely still.

“Father,” Arthur says. He shakes Uther’s unmoving body. The head lolls to the side on Arthur’s leg. He’s in a state of shock, disbelief on his face. “Father!” he says more emphatically. He jostles the body around, but to no avail.

Arthur turns his gaze to Burchard, face stony. “You’ve killed him,” he says. He clings to the king’s body, unwilling to release.

Burchard nods. “No,” he says simply. “No, not yet. Simply in limbo. Not a pleasant place to be, admittedly.” He cocks his head to the side, a smile creeping along his face. “I may yet still have some use for this stupid tyrant.” He raises a hand to wave the towering figure over his shoulder to come forward. “Your death, however, will be much more delicious, and much more immediate.”

The Death Sovereign lumbers forward, drawing a massive, black, pulsing blade from its back. It stands at the ready, towering over where the prince remains crouched. It speaks, a low, guttural, carnal voice emerging from its being. “Stand,” it commands, extending its blade outward.

Arthur huffs, looking between the creature before him and his unconscious father’s body. “You have always been a loyal friend to this kingdom, Burchard,” he says, voice wavering.

Burchard laughs, the air around him pulsing with horrific torment. “You think you would have let me live, knowing who I am?” He cranes his neck, curving his head at an unnatural angle. “You would’ve had me strung up, had I given you the chance!”

Arthur frowns, panting quickly. He tenses, placing a firm kiss on Uther’s forehead. He steels himself, pushing his grief away, and turns to face his threat. “You should leave while you still can, Merlin,” Arthur says.

Merlin stands resolutely, eyes trained on Burchard’s smug face. “You can’t get rid of me that easily,” he says, frowning with resolve.

“Silence, boy!” Burchard hisses, veins in his face pulsing black.

Merlin pushes himself against the onslaught of baneful energy Burchard sends his way. He winces, tapping into the grounding, steady sensation of stone under his feet. Breathing deep, he keeps his eyes focused forward. He begins to channel the feeling of fire, of warmth, of that white-hot fury from the previous evening. He raises his hands, feeling the heat move through the air.

“Now,” Burchard says, eyes hungry for a show. “Dance for me, Arthur Pendragon.” With an upward flick of his chin, the Death Sovereign lunges toward the prince.

Before it can even complete his first swing, Merlin has already slammed his palms down into the stone floor. Immediately, a wall of fire bursts up from the ground. It extends up into the ceiling, a translucent, violet-white fire, radiant and destructive, between where Arthur and Merlin stand and where the undead are gathered. Merlin focuses in on the fiery, explosive energy within him, and pushes the wall forward. Pained, wretched, miserable cries screech from within the fire as the undead spirits are burned in their physical shells. They try to escape, but there is only flame, all around them. One after the other, they fall, dead once again.

The Death Sovereign tries to protect itself from the flame, covering its face against the heat. The flesh burns, melting off of bone, and it cries out in anguish. It falls to its knees, trying to crawl towards its master.

Burchard’s robes catch flame, and he tries to push backward through the sea of undead, but he is trapped between encroaching death and his own horrid army. As the flames take them both, the Death Sovereign and the Necromancer, they clasp their arms together.

A powerful wave of frigid air explodes from their grasp, extinguishing the flames crawling up their skin enough to push away from the heat. The Death Sovereign picks up its master, hurling Burchard over its shoulder, and pushes back out of the room into the banquet hall. 

Arthur looks on, dumbfounded. He holds his sword at the ready, face getting blasted with the temperature of the fire. He blinks against the sudden light, unmoving.

Merlin runs forward, keeping his concentration on the flame all the while. “Let’s go, Arthur!” He loops Arthur’s arm across his shoulders, pulling the shocked man away from the decimation of rotting bodies.

As he leaves, dragging Arthur through the doors, he sees hundreds of thin, silvery, wispy spirits flying through the air, in all different directions, away from the flame. Hopefully, Merlin thinks, back to their resting place.

“AFTER THEM!” Burchard bellows, his voice carrying over the chaos of misery. The undead forces attempt to push through the fire, compelled by the power of the Death Sovereign, and they pile up, unmoving. One after the other, on top of each other, roasted to a crisp as their spirits are set free in pursuit of Merlin and Arthur.


	8. Escapes, Forests, and a Truth Laid Bare

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the wake of the invasion of the undead, a small gathering takes refuge in the forests surrounding Camelot. 
> 
> Arthur and Merlin seek comfort in one another.
> 
> Merlin confesses the deepest, truest part of himself to his companion.

Merlin keeps his focus ahead as he runs down the winding staircase, growing weaker as each moment passes by. Arthur remains catatonic at his side as he runs farther and farther through the castle, trying to hold his connection to the magical flame for as long as possible.

He half-drags, half-supports Arthur through the familiar castle halls, seeing for the first time the carnage the undead caused. Blood spatters decorate the walls, and guards and knights alike are scattered through the halls. Merlin pushes on, breathing hard, fighting the fatigue he feels. He must stay vigilant, always looking ahead, as various groups of undead soldiers seek out the two as they attempt to escape.

Guttural cries of woe echo off of the stone corridors, the undead moving together like thick oil. Merlin utilizes his gift of his mind’s eye to see several paces ahead. In his way, he is able to evade the undead forces, stealthily escaping from the blood-soaked castle. It’s not until Merlin steps outside that he drops his focus on the fire, gasping for breath. His legs are weak, burning with exhaustion. But still, he pushes on, into the woods beyond the castle walls.

The moment his feet hit the forest soil, he feels a surge of strength come back to him. He plows ahead, sweat dripping from his tunic.

In the darkness, its impossible to see whether he’s going to trip over any tree roots or branches. Somehow, though, he and Arthur stay steady on their feet. An encouraging, cooling breeze blows at the two men’s back, pushing them in the direction they desire to go. With it, it brings the relieving scent of pine.

Arthur takes a huge inhale, blinking in recognition at the scent. His eyes are glassy, far off somewhere beyond. “Merlin,” is all he says, before falling silent once again.

“You’re alright,” Merlin reassures him. “You’re safe here. There is no danger out here – the woods are on our side.”

They proceed on in silence for quite some time before coming to the familiar stone structure. The open windows emit a soft glow, and hazy silhouettes move across the light. “We’re here,” Merlin says to Arthur, breath heaving. He looks to him, taking in his face. Arthur’s features are consumed by shock, keeping most of the emotion at bay for the time being. “Shall I take you inside, or should we rest out here for a moment?”

Arthur just shakes his head, eyes cloudy. “Burchard betrayed us,” he says weakly. His hand clings to Merlin’s shoulder, desperate for something to ground him. “My father is prisoner in his own castle, and Burchard will torture him, and kill him.” He grasps tighter and tighter to Merlin until finally pulling him into a firm embrace. He buries his face in Merlin’s shoulder, saying the words over and over again, as though they’ll lessen the pain he feels.

Merlin just holds him, as tight as he can. He feels the weight of the evening pressing on him as he clings to Arthur. In this moment, it’s simply all he can think to do in lieu of collapsing to the ground at their feet. Without really knowing why, he begins muttering a prayer he used to hear his mother say when he was young. He says, gently and softly, “May the dead receive peaceful passage to rest. May the living, while they’re alive, find solace in their days. May peace fill the minds of the grieved.”

He feels the familiar wave of golden warmth moving through his being. He keeps his arms wrapped around Arthur, filling his companion with as much warmth as he can muster. Even as exhausted as he is, Merlin stands firm, supporting his companion. For now, with Arthur in his arms, it is enough.

The two men stand there for what feels like an eternity, hurt and healing moving between them and through them. Merlin, after some time, becomes aware of movement and muttering voices coming from the stone structure. Arthur remains silent, melting away into stillness and quiet. He pulls away from Merlin, face pale, eyes sunken. He brings his hands to rest on either side of Merlin’s face, looking over his companion’s steady expression.

“I don’t know what to do,” Arthur says. His voice is flat, dismal. Defeated, he searches Merlin’s eyes, hoping to find an answer.

Merlin forces a smile, hoping to reassure him. He rests his hands on Arthur’s chest, feeling the rising and falling of his breath. “For now,” he says, sighing, “let’s walk inside.” He nods in the direction of the stone structure, still glowing with light within. “Can we do that, sire?” he asks earnestly.

Arthur nods, setting his jaw to convey more courage than he has. “Lead the way, Merlin.”

Merlin takes Arthur’s hand in his own, guiding them both to the door. As he approaches, he sees that the stone structure itself faintly ripples with pale green arcane energy. He grins to himself, a seed of pride in his stomach. “Morgana,” He says into the building. “It’s us.”

After a moment of scrambling and muttering inside, a resounding pulse moves outward from the doorway. The rippling protective magic fades away, just enough to let the two men through the door. Merlin guides Arthur inside who, thankfully, seems be too dazed to notice anything out of the ordinary.

Merlin has barely crossed the threshold before Gwen throws her arms around his neck, burying her face against his chest. “Thank goodness you’re alright,” she says, voice barely above a whisper.

He wraps an arm around her waist, resting his head on hers. Merlin takes a deep breath, just letting himself be held for a moment. He keeps a firm grasp on Arthur’s hand at his side, and Arthur squeezes back just as hard.

Morgana comes over to their gathering across the threshold, placing a hand on Arthur’s shoulder. “What’s happened?” she says, taking charge of the situation.

Arthur rights himself, holding his head high. “Burchard is holding my mortally wounded father captive in the castle,” he says, voice as neutral as he can manage. “The citadel is crawling with undead. Camelot has fallen.” His head bows forward, apologetic sadness written across his face. “I couldn’t protect him,” he says.

“Nonsense,” Morgana says, snapping her friend back to reality. “What, you were supposed to singlehandedly take on an army of the undead?”

Arthur shrugs, his energy fading fast. “It’s my duty to protect Camelot. I failed.”

“Stop it,” Morgana commands. She smacks his sweaty shoulder, and he flinches in response. “Stop punishing yourself. We’re all still here, ready to fight. We just need to come up with a plan.”

She crosses to the center of the room where a large fire burns. Around the warmth, there sits Gaius, lightly dabbing a piece of cloth against Sir Leon’s forehead, who is still recovering from his wound. Lady Arienne sits huddled against Lavandin, the two looking sorely somber. Scattered about the room are about twenty or so others who escaped the banquet and fled to the woods with them, along with some folks from the lower town. Everyone is covered in grime, huddled in clusters, looking up at the fierce Morgana. She starts poking at the fire with a long stick, encouraging the flames to diminish.

“If you made it out alive, they’ll be looking for you. We should be safe here, but one can never be certain,” she says, perfectly comfortable taking the lead. She turns her back to Arthur, muttering an incantation as she continues prodding the fire. Gradually, the flames putter out, until there’s nothing but embers around them. Through the dim light, she says to the small group, “Try to get some rest. When the morning comes, we will come up with a plan.” She crosses to Gwen, placing a hand on the small of her back. “Camelot will not be taken by such a coward on my watch.”

Gwen smiles, pulling away from Merlin at last. She rests her head on Morgana’s shoulder, saying, “I certainly would hate to be on the receiving end of your wrath, my Lady.”

Morgana chuckles, leading the two of them to a nearby wall. She looks over her shoulder to the two men, eyes softening for a moment. “Get some rest, you two. Tomorrow is sure to be a long day.” And with that, she and Gwen walk to an open corner of the building, settling down for the night.

Merlin and Arthur still stand rather awkwardly, just inside the doorway. His hand is still clasped with Arthur’s though he’s unsure as to how to proceed. He scratches his head, looking anywhere but at the man by his side. “I should, erm, go see if Gaius needs – ”

“Stay with me,” Arthur says, giving Merlin’s hand an emphatic squeeze. “Stay by my side tonight.”

Merlin shifts his focus to Arthur. His face, though shrouded in darkness, is earnest, beseeching Merlin to stay. Merlin softly nods, mouth tweaking to the side to conceal the sadness he feels for his companion. “Alright,” he whispers. “Alright, I’ll stay.”

“Come,” Arthur says, guiding Merlin back out the door. “I’ll feel better resting under the stars.”

Merlin nods along, following Arthur a few paces away from the stone sanctuary.

The two collapse against the trunk of a tree just outside of the doorway, sliding down to a seated position. Merlin rests his head back against the tree, feeling the dragging exhaustion he’s been trying to keep at bay. Wrapping his arms around his knees, makes himself feel safe and protected, small against the world. With his back pressed against the cool, rough texture of the tree’s bark, his eyelids grow heavy.

“Merlin,” Arthur murmurs, voice close to his ear.

“Mmm?” Merlin mumbles, fighting his eyes open to look over at Arthur.

“Thank you,” he says, eyes focused on Merlin’s. “For staying.” He hesitates before saying, “I’d surely be dead now if you hadn’t stayed by my side.”

Merlin’s stomach flips, mind flashing back to the violet fire that rose up at his command, right before Arthur’s eyes. _Stupid_ , he thinks. _Utter fool._ In his moment of desperation, seeing no other alternative, it was like his body, his soul, had acted of its own accord; anything to protect the man now slumped against his side. Bringing his thoughts back to the moment, he frowns, shaking his head slightly to convey innocent confusion. “Dunno what you mean.”

Arthur rests his head against the tree trunk, eyes open and earnest. “I am not a fool, Merlin,” he whispers simply.

Merlin’s stomach knots itself, fear coursing through his veins. He swallows, hard, his pulse racing through his body. “I never said you were, Arthur.”

He places a gentle hand on Merlin’s knee, averting his gaze. “A display of flame like that certainly doesn’t come out of nowhere,” he says, keeping his voice low. His tone is curious, measured.

Merlin feels his throat begin to close and tries to clear it of its phantom obstruction. Adrenaline shoots through his veins. He looks around to the doorway and windows, thinking through the quickest way to escape. He eyes Arthur’s sword which rests mere inches away from his hand. He fights to keep his breath steady. _Absolute idiot, Merlin._ His mind is consumed with how simple it would be for Arthur to reach over, in a split moment, grabbing the sword and sinking it into his side, pain surging through his body as his life left him –

“How did it happen?” Arthur asks, using his index finger to trace simple shapes onto Merlin’s knee.

Merlin’s breath quickens, jaw clenched. Why is he being so gentle? Is it a ploy? His eyes flit about, weighing out his options. There, the familiar, vile image comes again. Him, on the pyre, burning alive. Arthur, crown atop his head, watching from a balcony above. He swallows again, forcing his eyes to focus on what’s in front of him. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he whispers emphatically, fear closing up his throat.

“Merlin,” he whispers, leaning in closer. He brings his hand up to Merlin’s cheek, guiding his gaze to meet his own. His eyes, they’re so soft. Arthur’s face is more open, more vulnerable, than Merlin has ever seen. Arthur strokes his thumb across the apple of his cheek, nodding softly. “It’s alright. I am not my father. You, of all people, should know that.”

Merlin nods, tears pricking his eyes. The truth is right there, right under the surface, so close they can both almost touch it. “I do, Arthur.” He places a hand atop Arthur’s against his cheek, grasping his steady touch.

Arthur nods along with Merlin, gaze soft, tired, but present. He’s being so patient, so surprisingly calm, in the wake of all that has transpired. Merlin can’t make sense of it, not in the slightest.

A moment of silence passes between them. Emotion, nameless and strong, builds within Merlin, and tears begin to fall down his cheeks. His secret, his true self, the one thing he intended to take with him to the grave, was simmering right on the edge of his voice.

It’s too much to bear. His breath becomes unstable, hitching and gasping as he tries to regain control. Arthur holds his face in his hands, wiping at the tears as they fall. Even though he feels he’s lost everything, he remains strong and steadfast for Merlin.

Finally, the pressure becomes too much for Merlin. His breathing quickens, his pulse races, and his vision blurs behind the tears. “I’m a sorcerer,” he whispers, voice frantic. It’s barely more than a breath, but the words are out there, right in the open, for Arthur to hear.

A pause feeling like eternity grows. Arthur’s gaze remains resolute. Behind his eyes fly sparks of hope, compassion, and guilt, all rolled into one. “You have magic,” Arthur says. It is not a question, but a declaration. His voice is steeped in warmth, in comfort, in safety.

Merlin sees pain in Arthur’s face. He does not fear the statement. He doesn’t run at the notion. He doesn’t immediately draw his sword to plunge into Merlin’s heart. Instead, his eyes remain soft, open, and accepting.

He knows Arthur sees the hurt, the shame, and the fear he harbors in his heart. He knows, for the first time, Arthur sees him, all of him, brought into the light. It’s like a rushing waterfall, the emotion pouring out of him at the sheer magnitude of the moment.

“I was born with it,” Merlin replies, choking on his words. He sniffles, trying to turn his face away from Arthur. He feels truly exposed, writhing in his own skin. He’s not used to this level of vulnerability; it feels like terrifying, uncharted territory. “And I use it for you, Arthur,” he continues on in a hushed, desperate tone. “Only for you. To serve you. To protect you. To help you become the man you’re destined to be.” His heart twists over on itself, breaking open all at once.

“For me?” Arthur asks, breathless in disbelief.

“Yes, Arthur.” Merlin places his hands on Arthur’s chest, focusing on the warmth radiating off of his body, trying with dire urgency to find something to ground him.

“Why?” Arthur’s eyes widen searching.

“Because,” he starts. He stammers, bringing to light his hope for the future. Merlin’s breath deepens, letting himself sink into the truth in his heart. The feelings that have grown, bloomed, and now, cannot help but spill from his heart. “I believe that you are destined for greatness.” He struggles to catch his breath, tears clouding his vision, chest seizing up with overwhelming hope, and sadness, and joy, and fear, all rolled into one. “You’re to become the greatest king the world’s ever known, Arthur. A king that’s fair and just, that sees people for who they are. Not for some title, or status, or how they are born. A king that will bring peace across the kingdoms.”

Arthur’s eyes light up, reflecting the dim golden glow that emanates from Merlin’s own. The magic that flows through Merlin cannot help but be known in this moment so visceral. Arthur’s pulse quickens under Merlin’s palm.

He continues on, his whole body vibrating with magic and energy and exhaustion. “But it’s more than that, Arthur. So much more than you may ever know.” His voice is growing thick, but he swallows it away. He forces himself to hold Arthur’s ever-intensifying gaze. “You are so, incredibly, undoubtedly dear to me. Dearer than anyone I’ve ever known, or ever will know. And I want to be here, by your side, through the whole journey to come.”

At those words, Arthur wraps a hand around Merlin’s neck, pulls him close, and kisses him. Deeply, slowly, and intimately, their lips dance. Merlin tastes the salt of his own tears against Arthur’s mouth, sliding against his firm and gentle kiss. He melts at his touch, collapsing into Arthur’s embrace, finally letting himself feel, deeply and wholeheartedly, supported.

They breathe against each other, tightly clinging to one another; Arthur’s hand remains on Merlin’s slender neck, the other winding its way into his tangled black curls. Merlin grips Arthur’s tunic, bathing in swirling golden light, tears flowing freely in euphoric and overwhelming bliss.

Here, on the hard, cold, forest floor, after facing destruction, betrayal, and despair, they hang on to each other. Their hearts laid bare, their bodies exhausted, they can do nothing but kiss.

Merlin pulls away, dotting small, restless kisses across Arthur’s jawline. He savors the soft and delicate skin, grazing his lips across his warm face, taking in every detail he can. He pulls his head back, and sees Arthur’s eyes half-closed, his mouth relaxed into a smile. He traces a finger along Merlin’s neck, and Merlin savors the sensation.

“You are so dear to me, Merlin,” Arthur whispers softly, gently, and comfortably as though they’ve kissed on the forest floor all their lives. “All of you.” He leans forward, placing a trail of kisses along Merlin’s nose, his cheeks, his jaw, and right in the space between his brows. With every kiss, Merlin’s heart swells, and a spark of golden light flashes in his eyes. “Your truth will always safe with me, for as long as is necessary.”

Merlin’s heart soars on the words, a light he hasn’t felt in so long filling his heart. He smiles, clutching Arthur’s hand to his heart.

Merlin smiles, tired eyelids drooping down. He rests his head on Arthur’s shoulder, letting himself succumb to the exhaustion dragging him down. “Thank you, Arthur,” he whispers.

Arthur guides them both down so they’re lying on the forest floor. He wraps a protective arm around Merlin’s thin frame. His warmth permeates into Merlin, relaxing his tightly wound muscles, easing his exhausting emotions. The two of them, for what feels like the first time in a very long time, sleep soundly, there, amongst the protective embrace of the forest.

***

Merlin stirs awake the next morning, breathing deeply the fresh, cold, and light forest air. He grips Arthur’s tunic, encrusted with his own father’s blood and dirt from their position on the ground. Flexing his feet, Merlin lets a bit of life into his bones. His eyes fall on Arthur’s still and serene face, and he places a delicate kiss on his grime-covered forehead.

Arthur takes a sharp inhale, eyes blinking open with the dawn. He reflexively tightens his grasp around Merlin’s torso, pulling him closer.

“Morning,” Merlin says quietly, cheeks rosy with the warmth of being in Arthur’s arms.

Arthur groans, as resistant to mornings as ever. “You snore,” he says sternly. He nuzzles his nose against Merlin’s cheek, smiling all the same. “I’d never noticed before.”

“Apparently, there’s a lot of things you never noticed about me before this evening,” Merlin teases, smirking.

Arthur smacks his shoulder in good nature, letting out a quiet chuckle. Then, his face sinks back to its position of worry as the memories of the previous day come flooding in. “We must see to the others,” he says solemnly, patting Merlin.

The two rise up, and they hesitantly approach the doorway into Camelot’s hideout. They see most everyone awake, huddled around each other for warmth. The morning has a distinctive cold bite, and many folks share Merlin’s rosy pink nose and cheeks as a result.

In the center of the room sits Merlin’s friends: Gaius, Gwen, Arienne, Lavandin, and Morgana. They’re all looking to the two who have just awoken, all of them covered in a thick layer of earthen dirt. Morgana smiles briskly at them, waving them through the doorway. As she does, the protective glimmer around the door fades for a moment before resealing itself behind them.

This time around, Arthur notices the shimmering magic, looking out of the corner of his eye at the shimmering air. “Is this your doing?” He asks quietly.

Merlin shakes his head. “No,” he says simply.

Arthur frowns, confused. “Well then who?”

“It’s not for me to say,” is all Merlin says in reply.

Arthur clearly wants to press the issue further, but instead, for once in his life, decides to keep his mouth shut.

They go to their friends, joining their small circle. Merlin places himself next to Gaius, wrapping a reassuring arm around his shoulders. Gaius smiles in return: tired, hungry, but hopeful all the same.

“Right,” Morgana says, calling the group’s attention. “Let’s get down to business. We have to defeat an army of the undead, save the King, and ensure Sir Burchard is – well – ” she looks self-consciously over to Arienne at her side, “ – we must see to it that he is no longer a threat.”

Arienne nods along, showing her support.

Morgana smiles in return before turning her focus back to the task at hand. “So. Gwen and I were talking last night.” she gestures to Gwen who, though tired as she may be, is full of encouragement for her companion. “We think that the best way to take back the castle is on two fronts.” She looks to Arthur for any objections, and when he remains silent, she continues on. “Arthur, you will go with a select few knights to the dungeons. That’s likely where they’ll be keeping Uther. If you’re quick, quiet, and clever, you should be able to slip in and out without attracting any… unwanted attention.”

Arthur nods, surveying the room. His eyes land on Sir Leon, who’s looking much more full of life this morning, and Lady Dahlia, who mutter quietly to one another off along the wall. “Leon and Dahlia are reliable and noble knights. I’ll lead them into the dungeons.”

Morgana presses on. “Right. Now, the trickier bit. How to deal with the Death Sovereign and Burchard.” She looks across the way to Merlin, her eyes intense. “I think it should be the two of us, Merlin.”

“ _You?!”_ Arthur cries, face contorting in retaliation. “There’s no way I’m letting you face Burchard. You’ll be decimated, and father will never forgive me for letting it happen.”

She smirks over at him, piercing eyes getting right to his center. “Do you really have so little faith in me?” She cocks her head to the side, “Or are you forgetting all those times I beat you as a child?”

A flash of recognition moves across Arthur’s face. Just a flash – if Merlin wasn’t so attuned to his expressions, he would’ve missed it. Arthur scoffs, moving past the moment. “I let you win,” he mutters sardonically.

“Merlin and I will be seeing to incapacitating Burchard and his evil death-wielding pet,” Morgana snaps. “Understood?”

“I’m coming with you,” Arienne pipes up. She holds her head high, daring anyone to question her.

“Arienne,” Lavandin says quietly, “I’m not certain that’s such a good idea.”

She looks to Lavandin at her side, gaze softening instantly. “Neither do I,” she replies, taking her hand. “But it’s something I feel I must do. If your father had committed such a horrible act, would you not do the same?”

Lavandin frowns, but protests no further. She gives her companion’s hand a squeeze in reassurance, staying strong.

After a moment’s pause, Morgana continues. “Alright. Merlin, Arienne, and I will see to it, then. I assume he will be in the throne room, because I’m certain a pompous fool like him – no offense, Arienne – would spend as much time as possible in the seat of power.”

She turns her focus to Gwen and Gaius, smiling resolutely. “You two will return with us to Camelot, but you will stay in the lower town. I’m certain there are citizens who need healing today, and they deserve the finest physicians in the land tending to them.”

Gaius beams with pride, bowing with respect to Morgana. “It would be an honor,” he says.

“Great,” Morgana says, clapping her hands together. “It’s settled. Prepare yourselves as much as you can. We head for the citadel within the hour.” She dismisses the group, and they disperse as much as they can throughout the building to get ready.

The group spends a bit of time gathering their strength. Gaius points Gwen to the various herbs they will need for healing compresses, and Gwen takes to the task naturally. Arthur and his knights talk strategy, whacking their swords around, generally trying to avoid thinking about the task ahead of them. Merlin and Morgana spend a bit of time in a secluded part of the forest, meditating, connecting with the powers within them. After some time, they reconvene, and they begin to make their way back towards the familiarly imposing castle.


	9. Power, Darkness, and A Battle Concluded

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our two sorcerers confront the necromancer, Sir Burchard. 
> 
> Lady Arienne sees her father for who he truly is.
> 
> Morgana's loyalties are challenged.

The group plods along; Merlin, Arthur, and Morgana take the lead, quietly moving though the forest. They keep their eyes peeled for any undead patrol that may be coming their way, pausing every so often to disappear into the undergrowth as small groups of black armor-clad, ghoulish soldiers stumble through the woods. After some time, Gwen and Gaius peel away to head into the lower town, tending to any who may be wounded.

Eventually, the small invasion reaches the secret entrance Morgana and Merlin have used so many times before, during their midnight escapades. Merlin approaches the gate, and he sends his mind’s eye to peer down through the hall. Down, down, down the hall his vision goes, only to reach the end and find nothing standing in their way.

“There’s nothing at the end of this hall. Beyond that, I cannot tell,” Merlin whispers to Arthur.

He nods in response, waving Leon and Dahlia close. They approach, swords drawn. After a few hand signals, developing their plan, they murmur their agreement. Arthur turns his focus back to Merlin. He gestures for Merlin to open the door.

Merlin gives a furtive glance to Arienne and the two knights, almost imperceptibly shaking his head.

Arthur looks confused, then widens his eyes in recognition. He turns to the knights again, whispering, “Cover our backs,” gesturing for them to turn around. They comply immediately.

Merlin, in the space of a breath, focuses his magic on the lock. With a sharp _click_ , the door swings outward. He smirks over at Arthur who just shakes his head in disbelief. Maybe, also, something a bit more, judging by the color rising in his cheeks.

Arthur snaps out of it, tapping the knights on the shoulder. The three of them proceed ahead, Morgana, Merlin, and Arienne trailing behind.

“You told him then?” Morgana whispers at his side.

He nods. “He’d basically figured it out,” Merlin says.

“Did you tell him about me?” she asks, voice low.

“No,” Merlin says. “It’s not for me to tell.”

“Then why did he agree to this plan?”

Merlin sighs, ever-so-slightly rolling his eyes. “You really don’t know how persuasive you are, do you? Uther himself has altered his plans to your will.” He looks over at Morgana, conveying a strong reassurance. “Your words carry a power that’s feared and respected, Morgana.”

Morgana falls silent; Merlin sees the corner of her mouth twitch upwards with pride.

They proceed along, approaching the end of the hall. From there, it meets perpendicular with a staircase; to the right, the staircase heads up into the rest of the castle – to the left, down to the dungeons.

Merlin looks to Arthur, heart steeling itself for the confrontation to come. He nods stiffly to Arthur, feigning more confidence than he feels. Arthur returns the gesture and holds out his arm. Merlin clasps it firmly, hanging tight to his companion.

“Till we meet again,” Arthur mutters. His face is perfectly neutral: the disposition of a true warrior.

Merlin nods again, afraid to speak and reveal the tightness growing in his throat. Instead, he turns away to head up the stairs, Morgana and Arienne following close behind.

They stealthily make their way through the castle. The stench is intolerable – bodies are still strewn about, insects finding their perch on the flesh of the dead. Morgana and Merlin both keep whatever fabric they can across their mouths and noses, trying to keep the rotting smell at bay. Arienne suppresses gag after gag, eventually stuffing a piece of fabric in her nostrils to prevent her nausea. As they move throughout the castle, Merlin continues to use his gift of his mind’s eye to see as far ahead of them as he can. By doing so, they’re able to avoid any encounters with the undead.

Merlin just hopes to the gods the story is the same for Arthur.

He pushes the thought aside – he can’t get distracted, not now. He proceeds on, rounding the final corner before the throne room. Before he steps out to approach the door, he reaches around with the gift of his magical sight. Ahead, he sees just what Morgana was expecting – a row of six undead soldiers guard the doors to the throne room, motionless.

Merlin turns back around, pulling his vision back into his body. “Six guards ahead. I’ll handle the three on the left, you take the three on the right,” he mutters in Morgana’s ear. “It has to be quick and silent.” He gestures with a hand, making a sickening motion mimicking a sharp snap. “Do you understand?”

She nods, eyes darkening at the thought. “I do,” she says. “I can do it.”

He places a hand on her shoulder and squeezes in a final moment of affirmation. Looking to Arienne, he says, “It is safest, for now, for you to stay behind the wall, my Lady. We will let you know when it’s safe.”

She nods, face pale.

Merlin turns back in the direction of the throne room. “On my signal,” he says as he turns back around, raising a hand up to signal to wait. Taking a steeling breath, he clenches his fist, racing around the corner.

Immediately, the wave of sorrow, dread, and horror overtake him. The undead start lumbering toward him, slowly and clumsily as they are.

Before they can even make it two steps, though, Morgana and Merlin begin muttering their quiet and powerful incantations. At once, the magic within Merlin reaches a crescendo, and it snaps out of his being.

With a gut-churning series of cracks, the spells reach the undead soldiers. The magically-inflicted wounds snap the bones of the undead, and they collapse, all at once, to the cold stone floor. Their thin and wispy spirits, fainter in the daylight, fly out in all directions, away from the rotted physical forms they occupied.

Merlin looks to Morgana, taking a cleansing breath. Her eyes are focused on the fallen form, glassy and clear. There’s a faint smile of satisfaction on her face as she looks up to meet Merlin’s gaze. Unease takes root in Merlin’s stomach, but he swallows it away.

_Just do the next thing,_ he coaches himself. He goes back to the corner where Arienne waits, and he beckons her on.

She walks forward, face growing ever more discolored. There’s fear in her eyes, and sweat builds on her brow.

“You’re sure about this?” Merlin asks, keeping his voice as quiet as possible.

Despite her nerves, she nods. “I must face my father, or I will never forgive myself.”

Morgana strides ahead, hungry for more. “Let’s not keep the bastard waiting then,” she murmurs, flinging the doors open.

The trio enters into the cavernous room. Morgana struts forward, only to freeze in her tracks at the sight in front of them.

She has yet to take in the Death Sovereign in all its glory: the hulking behemoth of blackened, rotted flesh stands at full height next to the throne. Its breathing is ragged, static, and haunting. In its hands rests a jet black blade, pulsating with necrotic magic, larger than life. Her eyes widen, captivated by the massive figure before them.

Next to the Sovereign sits Burchard. Legs crossed, head resting on his hand, crown placed askew atop his round head, he looks decidedly pleased with himself. Still, his eyes are void of light, with the web-like purple veins spreading outward across his face. “Ahh,” he sighs, settling further on the throne. “Back for Act Two, are we?” he waggles his fingers at Arienne. “Hello, daughter mine. _So_ glad you could join the fun.”

She strides forward, face contorted in conflicting sadness and anger. Merlin reaches out to keep her back, but she shrugs him away. Her stance is firm, rigid with fury. “Why are you doing this?” she spits out at her father. “Why betray the man you called friend?”

He throws back his head, cackling with laughter. At his side, the Sovereign echoes the laugh in its own sick, twisted, and demented tone.

Burchard sighs, settling his lightless gaze on Arienne. “You really think, had Uther known who I am, had truly seen the power I wield, an alliance would be possible?” He stands, and the Sovereign advances ever-so-slowly. “NO!” he cries, ragged voice ringing through the hall. “This is the only path,” he says, earnestness bleeding into his language.

“You’re wrong,” Merlin says. He holds his position firm, even as the Sovereign approaches further across the throne room.

Burchard snaps his focus immediately, and the Sovereign’s sunken eye sockets turn to Merlin. “Got something to say, boy?” he sneers, spreading his face into a grimy grin. “Or do you plan to set me alight, like your petty magic tried last evening?” He cocks his head to the side, taunting, and whispers, “I see _all_ , you stupid little servant.”

Merlin’s vision flashes red with rage, and he fights against his impulse to strangle the necromancer with his own bare hands. The air around his body rustles in response to his emotions.

“Come now, Burchard,” Morgana chimes up, equally as nasty. “Let’s be civil shall we? Or are you too much of a fool to handle that much?” She gives him a flash of her signature smirk, eyes just brighter than a natural green.

“I AM NOT A FOOL!” Burchard bellows, stamping his feet into the ground. As he does, the Death Sovereign roars, raising his blade in the anger its master feels.

The blade swings down over Arienne, and she jumps out of the way, stumbling head-on into the wall. With a dull thud into the stone, she slides to the ground, knocked unconscious.

“Arienne!” Merlin cries. He looks over to where she is slumped, worry taking hold in his stomach. He wants to go to her, to see if she’s alright. But no, he cannot – he must face this evil if any of them are to survive. “How could you do this?” Merlin shouts, anger clouding his mind, vibrating the air around his being. “Harm your own flesh and blood?”

Burchard’s cold gaze washes across the three young people in front of him, breathing heavily. His face pulsates with rage, contorted into ugly, ragged features. “I am not a fool,” he says, ignoring Merlin’s words, unsettlingly quiet. He jerks his chin upward, and the Sovereign raises its blade again. Taunting the two sorcerers, the black, pulsing blade hovers over the Sovereign’s head, waiting for a command.

A look passes between Morgana and Merlin. An unspoken agreement travels in their gaze, and the two ever-so-subtly change their stance. Merlin roots himself, drawing the image of the sturdy pine trees just beyond the castle. He taps into the strength of the breeze through their branches, and the air in the room begins to circulate around him, just a bit quicker than comfortable. Beside him, Morgana crackles to life, electric energy buzzing all around her.

Upon seeing this, Burchard takes a hesitant step back, resolve wavering. His wide eyes look between the two of them, settling on Morgana. “You could join me,” Burchard blurts, trying to hide desperation in his voice.

Merlin sees Morgana freeze next to him, her hands unmoving in the midair.

Burchard smirks. “Together, we could destroy the tyranny of the Pendragon empire.” His voice is strong, deliberate. He takes a step forward.

Morgana puts her hands down, brows furrowed. She shakes her head slightly, eyes locked with Burchard.

Merlin looks over to her, and he sees conflict in her face. “Morgana,” he says to her, “His words are meaningless. Do not listen to his empty promi – ”

“No longer,” Burchard starts talking over Merlin, “would you have to live like a sniveling, little, helpless princess – we could build an empire, stronger than any could possibly imagine.”

Morgana’s glancing between Merlin and Burchard, a darkness of her own behind her eyes.

Merlin grows more determined at the sight. He sees an image in his mind, of Morgana’s darkness overtaking him, striking him down. No, he cannot let it be, he cannot let that future come to pass. He cries, “Morgana, do not give in to what fate fears you will become!”

Burchard yells over Merlin, “Then, they will be forced to listen to us, forced to see our power!”

Morgana’s breath quickens, tempted by Burchard’s words, yet cautious by Merlin’s.

“You are more than this, Morgana! You are bright, powerful, compassionate – Burchard offers you only a life of destruction!” Merlin’s voice grows in depth as he taps into the strength of the forest. The air blusters around them, winds whipping around the room under Merlin’s will.

“They will bow at our feet, beg for mercy, for the atrocities they’ve committed against our kind!” Burchard’s voice reaches a crescendo, lashing out against the wind, robes billowing out and about. He extends his hand to Morgana, sneering down at her. “Join me, witch! You will see true power on Camelot’s throne!”

She brings a hand up to shield herself against the dust beating against her face. Grimacing, tempted by Burchard’s words, she continues to look between the two. She meets Merlin’s pleading eyes for a moment. Her face hidden from Burchard behind her hand, she gives a subtle wink to Merlin, keeping the rest of her features steady.

“I’m no longer frightened of who I am!” She shouts over the increasing winds. She smiles hungrily, extending a hand out to Burchard. “Show me,” she commands. “Show me what it means to be truly powerful!”

Burchard’s grin grows into a wicked smile, grimy features stretching into a haunting expression. “That’s it, girl, that’s it.”

He fails to notice the voltaic energy surging into Morgana’s hand.

Too late, he takes her hand in his, only to immediately cry out in pain. His whole body convulses as lightning shoots through his body, bringing him to his knees.

The Sovereign behind him cries out in pain, though it cannot pinpoint where the pain comes from, amidst its connection to its master. It, too, comes to its knees, decomposing hands dropping the blade it carries and instead clawing at its face.

Merlin seizes the moment, funneling the energetic air into a large column, a tornado of chaos right on top of the Sovereign. The momentum of air increases, pulling as much air into its spiraling mass as possible. The Sovereign continues to cry out as its master does, and it gets lifted into the air, slamming into the ceiling, hard.

At that moment, Merlin shifts his focus away from the tornado and instead onto the metal the Death Sovereign wears. He cries out an ancient incantation, contracting his chest as he does so. He brings his hands out in front of them and with painstakingly slow speed begins to press them together, as though he were molding a ball of clay into a flat sheet.

Above him, the Sovereign cries out in agony as its armor begins to crush it. Smaller, and smaller, and smaller, the armor becomes, compacting the flesh within. The Sovereign wails, louder and louder, until the armor crushes its body to the point of no return. Howls of pain receding, the Sovereign’s head lulls out over open air, the life force within him fading. He watches as a hollow, mournful sound pours out of the Sovereign, and with it, that same thin, whispy, white spirit as the other undead forces. It flies, streaking out the window, away from this desolate scene.

Beside Merlin, Morgana cackles with laughter at the sight of the convulsing Burchard. She relinquishes her grasp on his hand, and he lays on the ground, whimpering like an injured dog. She leans in close to his ear, and he flinches away, drool running off the side of his mouth.

“To quote someone far wiser than I,” she whispers in Burchard’s ear, “I am afraid you miscalculated… old pig.” She spits out the insult, and he scrambles away from her, panting heavily. She rights herself, turning away with a dismissive hand. “Do what you must, Merlin,” she calls over her shoulder, crossing over to tend to Arienne’s slumped form on the wall.

Merlin’s rage begins to fade, turning to pride as he watches Morgana’s powerful form saunter over to Arienne. He looks down at the pathetic form of Burchard. Then, his gaze turns upward to the limp, unmoving form of the Death Sovereign above him. Using a brief incantation, he floats the incapacitated form down to the ground, just to the side of Burchard. The young warlock stands over their forms, great golden strength surging through his veins.

Burchard’s eyes lock with his. Sputtering, panting, and spitting all over himself, Burchard mumbles, “They – will never – accept – you – ” he coughs, gagging at the pain o.

Merlin sets his jaw, standing resolute. “They will,” he says, voice ringing out with confidence. “Though I’m sorry to say you’ll never have the pleasure of seeing that.” With a twitch of his head, he commands a band of the Sovereign’s metallic armor to come free. Using his hand as guide, he molds the strip of metal around Burchard’s hands and ankles, binding him in place.

Burchard looks about, panic-stricken. “You’re – you’re you’re – n-not going to – to –ki-kill me?”

Merlin tutters, mocking Burchard’s own taunting habit. “Oh no,” he says, voice growing dark. “That would be far too decent a fate for you.”

As if on cue, Merlin becomes aware of distant footsteps approaching the throne room. They slow on their approach, and Merlin turns around to face the entrance.

Arthur and Sir Leon enter, swords drawn, carefully glancing down at the unmoving enemies at their feet. Arthur looks up, his hyper-focused eyes taking in the scene. His gaze looks between the gargantuan Death Sovereign, now an empty, rotting shell, and Burchard, who is bound, whimpering, and sweating.

Merlin’s heart soars at the sight of Arthur. The dark malice he feels for Burchard begins to melt away as Arthur approaches. Dizzy from the rush of lightness entering his being, he even feels a faint upward turn on his lips, seeing Arthur is intact.

Arthur catches Merlin’s gaze for an instant, a flash of relief in his own sharp blue eyes. Immediately, his eyes go back to Burchard’s shuddering form, sword pointed at his chest. “One wrong move and it will be your last,” Arthur says, commanding.

At that, Burchard freezes. He even holds his breath, his face steadily growing redder by the moment.

Arthur looks to Leon, nodding in Burchard’s direction. “Take him to the dungeons and see to it that he’s secured.”

He nods at once. “Right away, sire,” he says. He quickly sheathes his sword and, in one swift movement, hoists Burchard’s large form over his shoulder.

Burchard’s eyes widen in fear from his position tossed over Leon’s shoulder. “No no no, you cannot leave me to Uther’s judgment,” he pleads, “Please, you cannot do this, have mercy!” He continues to blubber on hysterically, slowly drifting into nonsensical words.

Arthur ignores him entirely, bending over the Sovereign’s form. He frowns in disgust at the smell, pulling his tunic over his nose and mouth. “Is it – well – dead… again?” He prods it with the end of his sword, and the body shifts slightly.

Merlin goes over to join him, standing over his shoulder. “Yes, sire.”

Arthur grunts, nodding in satisfaction. “Figured as much… All at once, the soldiers just… fell down. Thought you must’ve taken care of this.” He stands, turning to face Merlin. Though his jaw is taut, there’s a smile behind his eyes. He claps Merlin on the shoulder. “You’ve done well,” he says, a smile creeping onto his face.

Merlin smiles, the familiar unnamable warmth radiating out from his heart.

Morgana scoffs from her position sat next to a now-conscious Arienne, but says nothing.

Arthur rolls his eyes in response. “You as well, Morgana,” he says, feigning disinterest. Really, he’s proud of her, even if he tries to hide it.

Hungry, tired, covered in grime, and in desperate need of a hot bath, the four of them rally themselves to exit the chamber, leaving the chaotic and destructive events of the day behind them.


	10. Familiar, New, and a Promise of Tomorrow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The dust settles over Camelot. 
> 
> Merlin and Arthur come home to each other.
> 
> As the seasons change, love comfortably rests across the kingdom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains sexual content.

The next few days are spent trying to return the castle to some semblance of normalcy. Servants, knights, and nobles alike all work together to begin gathering the dead and bringing order about the castle. King Uther, after a battle with his nasty wound and the infection that came with it, remains bedridden in the aftermath of a miraculous turn of health.

Some, the rumors around the castle say, believe it to be so miraculous, it’s the work of sorcery. Every time Merlin hears servants or nobles murmuring about it when they think no one’s listening, he can’t help but smile the tiniest bit.

One afternoon, Uther, having sympathy for Lady Arienne, asks that she come to his chambers.

She enters into the room to see Uther in bed, with Arthur, Merlin, and Gaius at his side. “You wanted to see me, Your Highness?” She asks, curtsying.

“Yes,” Uther says, grunting. He adjusts his position in bed, wincing loudly at the pain in his side.

Merlin rolls his eyes, forever fed up with the Pendragon flair for the melodramatic. Arthur elbows him sharply in the side, not missing a beat.

“I wanted to offer my condolences for the fate of your father,” Uther says solemnly.

She stands silent, head bowed in respect. She does not meet Uther’s gaze.

He continues on at her silence. “The laws of this land are clear, I’m afraid. I cannot deliver one sentence to one sorcerer and then show favor for another, no matter – ”

“My father was a traitor,” she interjects sharply. “Not only did he endanger the integrity of your kingdom and our alliance going forward, but he endangered my life as well.” Her voice wavers slightly, but she keeps her intention strong. “I always knew he was a man capable of cruel and violent actions, but I never believed, not once, that he would turn that skill on his own daughter.” Her lip quivers, and she presses on. “I suppose I was wrong.” She looks up, meeting Uther’s gaze. “You were right to execute him. He was a danger to us all.”

Uther looks up at her from his position in his bed, a fatherly concern across his face. “Regardless,” he says with surprising tenderness, “I will not have you returning to your kingdom after such a distressing event. You are more than welcome to stay here while you get your affairs in order, if you so desire.”

Her eyes widen slightly, lips parting in surprise. She looks to Arthur, and he gives her a stealthy thumbs-up and a smile. She shakes her head, saying, “My Lord, I would never want to impose – ”

“Nonsense,” he says, waving a hand dismissively. “I insist, my Lady.” He smiles reassuringly, breathing labored from the effort of conversation.

At that, she smiles, curtsying once again. “I thank you, Your Majesty,” she says. “You are very generous.”

Uther nods in response, eyelids drooping shut in exhaustion.

Gaius interjects then, saying, “It would be best if we left the king to get some rest.”

The three others nod in response, and they all leave Uther in the capable hands of Gaius.

***

The following night begins like any other.

Merlin prepares Arthur’s bath, not bothering with the time it takes to heat the water by the fire anymore. With a simple muttering incantation and a flash of gold, gentle steam rises up out of the basin. He moves his hand in a figure eight symbol over the water, causing the water below to follow the pattern. After a moment, he pulls the water’s energy upward, and a small stream of water emerges from the bath. He bounces it, up, and down, watching it coil and stretch, as he waits for Arthur to undress. Getting lost in the flowing movement of the water, his mind falls to silky smooth thoughts, running one after another, drifting away as soon as they form, only to flow right down the water.

“Enjoying yourself, are you?” Arthur’s voice says. His voice is low, hoarse, and gentle.

Merlin startles briefly, releasing his command on the water. He chuckles to himself, letting the sudden surprise out of his body. “Sorry,” he says quietly. “I’m just not used to – well – ” he hesitates, sighing. He stands up, gesturing to the basin, backing away from the edge of the water. “Up until recently, I was convinced you’d have me hanged if you saw that. So I still get a bit – ”

“Jumpy?” Arthur asks, finishing the thought.

Merlin nods, fidgeting with a loose thread on his neckerchief. His eyes drift from Arthur’s piercing gaze down to his torso, down to the maroon towel that hugs his waist. Merlin feels a flushing heat flood through his body, and he swallows, looking away.

Arthur walks the last few steps to meet Merlin where he stands, placing his hands on his thin forearms. He takes a deep breath, sighing long and deep, and he runs his thumbs back and forth along the insides of Merlin’s arm.

A sweet sensation sparks to life from the simple contact, washing through Merlin. So much the same, but so much different. Intimate. Tender. Wanting. His shoulders relax, and he resigns himself to the pleasurable touch.

“You think too much,” Arthur says softly, eyes looking down at Merlin’s delicate and pale skin. He drops one of Merlin’s arms and holds the other aloft, running the fingers of his opposite hand up and down the length of Merlin’s exposed forearm.

Merlin takes a deep breath in, lips parting slightly at the desire rising up within him.

“What are you thinking now?” Arthur asks, leaning over to place a gentle kiss on the inside of Merlin’s wrist. He looks up at Merlin, eyes innocent and coy.

Merlin cradles Arthur’s head in his free hand, running his fingers through his companion’s golden-blonde hair. “That – that thing you’re doing – ” he stammers, physical feeling overriding the desire to speak. He lets his hand flow across Arthur’s neck, grazing his fingers along its length.

“What thing?” Arthur asks innocently. His tongue makes a circular motion on Merlin’s wrist, eliciting a whimper from the sorcerer. He smirks to himself, saying, “What was that? Sorry, couldn’t understand you,” carrying on as though they’re discussing something entirely mundane.

Merlin lets out a moan, gripping harder to Arthur’s silken hair. “You know what thing – the thing – the thing with your lips,” he sighs, exasperated and filling with desire.

Arthur nods, tracing gentle kisses all the way up from Merlin’s delicate writs to the crook of his elbow. “Ahh, I understand now,” he says, teasing. “ _This_ thing,” his voice is thick with something Merlin’s never quite heard before. He runs his tongue up the length of Merlin’s arm, and feels a gasp, a shudder in response. He rights himself, standing no more than a few breaths away from Merlin. His eyes are heavy, wanting. “What about it?” He keeps on absentmindedly tracing up and down Merlin’s forearm, every so often brushing against the fabric of Merlin’s rolled-up sleeve.

Merlin runs a hand down Arthur’s chest, taking in the soft, warm skin under his hand. _Beautiful,_ he thinks. Absolutely beautiful. Standing here now, he wonders how he never noticed, really noticed, before – the curve of his cheek, the strength of his jaw, the delicate nature of his skin. He shakes his head, breathless.

“ _Arthur._ ” He whispers the name like it’s a prayer. All around him, gold soaks his vision, lost in the image of his friend, his companion, and something else.

_Arthur._

Taking a step closer, he tilts his head to the side, and places a tender kiss right at the base of Arthur’s neck. This brings Arthur’s sharp intake of breath in response, and Merlin smiles against the heated, flushed skin.

“ _Merlin_ ,” Arthur mumbles, color rising in his cheeks. His grip around Merlin’s forearm tightens, nails digging into the soft, pale skin. He speaks the name with reverence, with familiarity, and with a pure, uninhibited adoration.

Merlin just sighs in response, letting his eyes wander down the body before him. So familiar, so new. His heart quickens at the notion; the man that he knows so well, and yet he feels like he’s meeting him for the first time. He drags his fingernails down Arthur’s torso, scraping against the skin.

Arthur’s breath hitches at the sensation, releasing his hold on Merlin’s arm. He pulls Merlin close, chest to chest, to wrap his own arms around his slender back. His embrace easily drapes around Merlin’s lanky frame, and his fingers trace lines and shapes across his back. Arthur tilts his head over to the side, encouraging Merlin on.

Merlin obliges, heat growing all through his body, as he drags his lips along Arthur’s neck, his jaw, the lobe of his ear. His arms wrap around Arthur’s strong form, gentle but deliberate, tangling into his hair. He breathes in the comforting and ever-present scent that is Arthur: the smell of earth, of spice, and the fragrance of pine. 

Arthur’s hands begin to make their way up to the knot of Merlin’s neckerchief, letting the fabric fall to the ground. “I want you,” he murmurs, voice barely more than a breath.

It makes Merlin’s skin come alive at the words. He wonders if he was meant to hear at all. _I’m yours,_ Merlin thinks. Yours, always yours, always yours. He buries his face in Arthur’s hair, his neck, breathing in all he is, tasting his prince’s skin.

Arthur just groans in response, now hungry for more, placing heated kisses along Merlin’s sensitive and exposed neck.

Merlin’s hands grasp for Arthur’s body, tensing and bending to the sensation all the while. He feels passion rising up within him, golden light coursing through his veins. He clings to Arthur’s chest as the prince lightly bites at his neck, tongue running along its length, pressing himself as close as possible. “Take me,” Merlin sighs, clinging tighter to Arthur’s form.

Arthur can’t help himself – he pulls away, only enough so he can pull Merlin’s wretched tunic over his head. Both of them breathe quickly now, and they crash back into each other, finally bringing their lips to meet.

Their passionate, hard kisses desperately seek each other out, breathing with urgency against each other, melting into each other’s touch.

_At last_ , comes an unspoken sigh. The air swirls around the two, carrying with it warmth, promise, devotion, and sweet, golden magic. They fall back onto the bed, bath forgotten, soaking in the sweetness of their touch like honey: sweet, slow, and so easy to savor.

***

As the season passes on, Camelot has just about returned to normal. The unfortunate events of Samhain are left behind, save the occasional tattered tapestry in the halls.

Merlin and Morgana have since resumed their late night magic sessions, though in a much more casual capacity; their evenings through the increasing colder months tend to be occupied with activities of a more intimate nature with companions of their own.

Rumors spread amongst nobles and servants alike of just how much time Morgana and Arthur spend in their chambers, themselves and their servants unheard of for hours, evenings into mornings, at a time.

“And that’s just what they are,” Merlin reassures each person, discussing the issue, “ _rumors._ ” Every time he hears it discussed, he gives them a reassuring tap on the shoulder, magic surging through the contact, to ensure beyond certainty that it’s all rumor, it’s all it’s ever been, nothing more.

He is always met with the same glassy eyes, the nodding of the head. “Yes, of course,” comes the response. “Just a rumor, nothing more.”

Arthur and Arienne keep up their charade of courting one another, mainly to appease Uther as he continues to recover. Many times, the two go on ‘hunting trips,’ bringing their servants along side them. After a short ride away from Camelot, though, the two pairs bid their goodbyes, finding ever-increasing ways to get up to their own private kind of mischief.

Merlin relishes the adventure of being so close to Arthur. He loves the tease, the chase, the laugh, the kiss, the melting into the forest floor, or the trunk of a tree, or a particularly smooth rock in a cave.

On this night in particular, Camelot receives its first snow. Gentle tufts of white fall from the sky, blanketing the citadel in a cozy bed of cloudlike fluff.

Merlin is in Arthur’s chambers this evening, lounging across Arthur’s bed while the prince indulges in a pine-scented bath. A fire roars in the hearth, casting warmth and light throughout the room. There’s a pot of hot apple cider warming near the fire, and the comforting smell of cinnamon and clove floats throughout the room. The firelight dances off of Merlin’s pale torso, his tunic lost somewhere in the mess of sheets and blankets.

He’s going to need to wash these at some point, he ponders. They’ve become fused with the scent of spice, sweat, earth, and sex. He feels his cheeks warm at the thoughts, the memories, that have shaped this bed, heat spreading across his skin.

Turning his gaze back to the room, he watches the rising and falling of Arthur’s chest. Arthur’s eyes are relaxed and closed, a gentle flush across his face from the warmth of the fire and the bath. Merlin feels a flutter in his belly when his eyes fall upon the scattered bruises running along the side of Arthur’s neck and collarbone, and he traces a hand across his own neck’s bruised and sensitive skin. Pleasure still fills his body, and he relishes in the ecstasy of the feeling. His vision is rimmed with gold, eyes reflecting the magic that spills out of his peaceful euphoria.

He loves this feeling. The sensation of complete and utter relief, comfort, peace, and warmth he feels with Arthur. With him, nothing is difficult. It’s like they share the same breath, balancing each other with ease.

“How do you do it?” Arthur asks out of the blue. His eyes flutter open, heavy-lidded and content, looking over to Merlin.

Merlin sits up, meeting Arthur’s gaze. He smiles, though clueless as to what Arthur means. “Do what?” he asks.

Arthur turns away, frowning slightly. Doubt flashes across his features. “It might not be my place to ask,” he mumbles, splashing the water with his fingertips.

“No, no, it’s alright,” Merlin says reassuringly. He smiles softly, getting up from the bed to lean down over the bath. He presses his gentle lips to Arthur’s neck, and immediately the frown on his face vanishes. “How do I do what?” he prompts.

Arthur sighs, bringing up a hand to caress Merlin’s cheek, stroking softly. “How do you keep your magic from corrupting you, like Burchard?” His eyes are genuinely curious, imploring, and he looks into Merlin’s eyes, searching out an answer.

Merlin’s stomach lurches at the question. His spirit falls slightly. It’s easy for him to forget, now, that Arthur has been taught his whole life about the inherent evil of magic. Uther’s roots run deep, and are not so easily undone. He sighs, contemplating how to approach the subject.

Then, he gets an idea. With an eager smile spreading on his face, he shimmies out of his trousers, sending one foot, then the other, into the warm water of the bath basin. He shifts his seat, so his back is placed against Arthur’s front and both of them are looking towards the hearth. In the process, he ends up splashing a wave of water out onto the cold stone floor.

“What are you – ” Arthur protests, arms held aloft as Merlin makes a mess.

“Oh calm down,” Merlin teases. “I’ll be the one to clean this up anyway, gods know you’ve never done a chore in your lifetime.”

Arthur scoffs, immediately defensive. He smacks the back of Merlin’s head, saying, “I have done – ”

“Regardless,” Merlin says, cutting him off, “that’s not the point. Now, just… relax.” He takes Arthur’s hand in his own, intertwining their fingers. He rests his head against Arthur’s chest, feeling the steady rising and falling of Arthur’s breath, the pulsing of his heart.

“I’m going to try something,” Merlin continues on, “and I’ll ask you about it afterward.”

He feels Arthur nod against his back, and he feels the warm, firm kiss of Arthur’s lips in his black mop of hair. “Fire away,” Arthur says, settling into place.

Merlin clears his throat, taking a deep breath. He extends the hand that’s intertwined with Arthur’s out toward the fire burning in the hearth. Muttering a second-nature incantation, he sends his warm and elemental essence out of their joined palms and into the fire. Out of the sparks of embers, there emerges the form of a dragon in flight, though the image remains within the fire.

Behind him, Arthur gasps, and he clenches Merlin’s hand tighter, wrapping the other around his waist.

“Can you feel that?” Merlin asks, keeping his gaze on the dragon’s image.

“Yes,” Arthur says in awe, breathless. “Yes, I can, is – is that, is that magic?”

Merlin nods, releasing his focus on the spell. He cranes his neck around to Arthur, who still looks ahead at the flames. His jaw hangs open, eyes glistening in the firelight, euphoric.

“What did it feel like?” Merlin asks delicately. He rubs his thumb absentmindedly over Arthur’s hand.

Arthur shakes his head in disbelief, speechless. “My hand, my heart, it was… it was warm. Like sunlight, like liquid gold.” He looks down to Merlin, eyes beaming bright. “Is that how it always feels for you?”

Merlin shrugs, teetering his head back and forth as he settles back against Arthur’s chest. “More or less. Sometimes, it’s more present, hot, intense. Other’s it’s cooler, sweeter.” He pauses, taking a breath to steel his confidence.

“I was hoping,” he continues, “you’d feel what I felt so you could better understand. The essence of magic, that is. It’s not good or evil, Arthur. It is as much of the earth as the air we breathe, the water we drink, the herbs we brew, the fires we burn. Magic is woven into the very fabric of our world, and to deny that is to deny the very earth we walk upon. And sometimes, people – like me – are gifted with the ability to let that magic move through them.” He looks up and over his shoulder at Arthur, who is captivated by every word Merlin says. “Magic is pure in spirit – it knows no morals. The hearts of humanity, though, know nothing but. Having the gift of magic is a great power, and some hearts become consumed with that.”

“Do you?” Arthur asks.

Merlin shakes his head. “No, Arthur. I don’t.” He reaches a hand around to hold touch Arthur’s cheek, enjoying the warmth on his hand. “I’ve found my purpose in magic to serve you and the kingdom you’re going to build. I’d have it no other way.”

Arthur sighs, shaking his head. His expression is one of gratitude and confirmation. He seems so settled, gazing down into Merlin’s eyes. “I love you,” he says.

So simple, he says it. In a space no longer than a breath.

It’s not a life-altering realization. More, a resignation. A recognition of a feeling that’s gone unnamed for so long, it feels as though it’s always been there.

Love.

“And I love you, Arthur,” Merlin responds with ease. He smiles peacefully, resting against his companion, losing himself to a wave of bliss.

There, in Arthur’s cozy chambers, the two lovers rest. They know, that in the coming days, or weeks, or months, they and their friends will face conflicts, threats, bandits, corruption, beasts, and all the like. But for now, they can let it all melt away. For now, here, within the castle walls, love can flourish, free to have a night of peace as winter is welcomed to Camelot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's it for this tale! If you've read this far, thank you for spending your time with these adventurers, friends, and lovers. 
> 
> Take care, stay safe, and be well!

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! This is my first attempt at a fic, and I've had a great time so far. I feel I should also make it clear right off the bat that this is a very slow-burn-type story. As you can tell, not much happens in this chapter - but we're setting up for more to come!
> 
> Within the realm of the actual series, I think of this as splitting from canon right around the beginning of series 2. Because my word, Morgana and Merlin deserved some camaraderie amidst the chaos.


End file.
